Storming Skies
by Rustito
Summary: Led by Glenn Gordon, Thunderbolt Squadron continues its aerial campaign against Black Hole, but when the rogue country forms a grim team of some of the world's best pilots, even Orange Star's finest dogfighters must wonder if any will survive.
1. The Liberation of Kivari

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

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**Storming Skies  
****By Rusty Dillingham  
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**---Mission One – The Liberation of Kivari---**

--- --- ---  
_New Year's Day, 0200 Hours  
_--- --- ---

Thunder rolled across the darkness of Kivari.

The city had been occupied by Black Hole forces almost two months earlier, being one of the first communities to fall to the rogue nation's latest terror campaign. Food shortages, power outages, lack of water; just when a person thought things couldn't get worse because of these invaders, they did. And every night, the occupying forces would order a blackout across the city to insure the peace; to make sure no rebellion popped up in the middle of the night and rioted up a storm as bleak as the weather. It was a dark, gloomy hell, and the invading forces made damned certain of it.

Of course, there'd been rioters – Rioters who had been easily dispatched by Black Hole infantry. It was a miserable scene everywhere one went in the town. By this time, a person couldn't walk down the street to the store without being harassed by the gruesome-looking, gray-skinned infantry units of Black Hole origin, and with the bizarre, walking tanks plodding around all over the place, it was safer to stay indoors anyway.

Black Hole knew their business well. Kivari was a key Orange Star city, much like Krasst – Only Krasst was back in Orange Star's possession. And even then, conditions hadn't been as bad for that city as they were for Kivari. Black Hole was frankly grabbing up every inch of resource the settlement had, and it would only last so long. Businesses were being shut down, homes being taken over for Black Hole's own perverted, personal use -- Things weren't looking good at all for Kivari's residents.

Yet the Black Hole forces had overlooked one simple thing. They had numerous infantry, Neo-Tanks, APCs, and had even taken command of the city's transit system, molding every bus into a nightmare of wheeled weaponry. But at the same time, the occupation force's air defenses were miniscule. There were certainly patches of anti-aircraft units placed here and there throughout the city, but thought obviously hadn't been put into oh-so necessary strategy.

The Black Hole occupation commanders in the makeshift headquarters, formerly the city's central post office, were for the most part unaware of this devastating mistake they'd made.

"Are the Mid-Tanks set up in Sector 11-B yet?" one of the ugly creatures asked, its voice sounding as though someone were trying to strangle it while it gargled.

"Of course they are!" the other spat. "Do you think I'd be dumb enough to delay carrying out an order from Commander Adder himself? He'd have my head on a platter within minutes."

The first alien officer narrowed its vulgar, bulging red eyes. "What about the rockets in 06-A?"

"What do you think? I'd be an idiot not to have them set up already. It's two in the morning, for Pete's sake."

"Yes," the other muttered, perhaps better suited to the idea called strategizing "but didn't the Commander talk about something else before he left for the front lines? Something about the air?"

"Well, who cares about the air? We can't breathe these repulsive humans' atmosphere. He probably said the air made his skin itch or something – You know how he is." The second officer glanced out a nearby window, perhaps thinking it had heard something. "Or maybe he said the air gives him indigest—"

An utterly earth-shattering explosion tore through the postal office as though some great asteroid had slammed right into it, sending debris – and the two officers – flying in every possible direction. A wave of fire flew through the many rooms as the fireball lit up the night all around the area for miles around. Throughout all the sudden chaos, the hideously loud roar of engines up in the sky was clearly audible.

"YOU USELESS IDIOT!!" The first officer poked its sweaty head out from under a broken desk, ready to raise every inch of hell it could. "He was talking about the AIR! THE _AIR!_"

The second officer cleared its throat uncomfortably from somewhere under a mess of wood and paper. "Whoopsy."

With a scream of its afterburners, the Orange Star jet shot up and away from whatever was left of the Kivari post office. It kicked onto its side as it roared past a flock of taller buildings, immediately gaining attention from a group of anti-aircraft units stationed on top of some of them. Without hesitation, a barrage of bright yellow bullet streaks erupted from the top of the buildings as Black Hole desperately tried to down the enemy aircraft, but the fighter was moving at over mach one at this point. It easily evaded whatever gunfire was sent its way.

"Wee-oo!" Glenn Gordon couldn't help but grin as he piloted his nimble, orange-hued aircraft back towards a speeding party of similarly-painted fighters, all coupled together one-by-one in a mostly rogue echelon formation. Further stressing the afterburners sped up his arrival to the group, but they probably wouldn't stay together for long, considering the situation they were now in.

"Doggone, Glenn," a voice over the fighter pilot's communications radio uttered, "a guy can't help but think you're actually having fun when you do somethin' like that."

His grin turning into a smirk at Tuxedo Ral's sarcastic commentary, Glenn easily brought his aircraft up next to his wingmate's with all the experience any Orange Star ace would have. "No one ever said I wasn't allowed to get a kick out of flying a plane. That and kickin' some Black Hole ass."

"_Pffft,_" Tux groaned from the fighter beside Glenn's. "I'm the only one allowed to party around here, in case you've gone and done forgotten."

Glenn found this true, but only because Tux was allowed to get away with it for some completely nonsensical reason.

It had only been around a month since the battle over the Fate's Point base – The most decisive battle of the war yet. Glenn and the 207th Orange Star Air Force squad, the Thunderbolt Squadron, had taken the fighting right to Black Hole, along with the enemy ace pilot who had plagued the Orange Star pilots for so long: Kailaff Boldigh. It had been in that battle alone that the Orange Star air force had eradicated any threat from Boldigh and what had come to be known as "the Black Cannon," the fearsome doomsday weapon, but while Kailaff Boldigh's remains scorched the skies over Fate's Point, there still lay a gruesome danger in Orange Star's – and the Thunderbolts' – future.

It had soon become very clear to Glenn that even with a loss as devastating as that of the Fate's Point battle, Black Hole's invasion forces wouldn't slow down in the least. He was equally irritated to learn that during the battle, Black Hole had occupied at least two cities on the other side of the Macro continent. There was nothing more infuriating – at least nothing he could remember or think of – than performing to the best of your abilities and taking a big swipe at the enemy only to have it handed back to you, ass-first.

Luckily, at the same time, Orange Star's forces hadn't slowed down either. Glenn had become the first "ace" pilot of the war, taking down five enemy Black Hole fighter aircraft, otherwise known now to the air force as "bandits." Strangely enough, he hadn't felt as proud or happy about the inconspicuous title as he thought he would, but when one of Glenn's squadron members, Felipe "Fel" Banon, passed him in takedowns, the Thunderbolts' flight leader thought it best to get his game on a little more every time they went into combat to lay down the law.

Fel Banon certainly wasn't Glenn's kindest wingmate. It seemed the two of them were constantly at it sometimes back on the Reagan air force base. It had the tendency to get a bit ridiculous at times. The two of them had gotten locked up for a while in the stockade for starting a food fight in the middle of the cafeteria, but after a blue million apologies from Glenn, Commander Beauregard gave in and struck it from his military record. Fel Banon wasn't so lucky, and seemed to resent Glenn even more for it.

But Fel was only a friendly rival, in the big thick of things. If Glenn had a true enemy for an ally, it was Zodolphas Gallow.

Zodo was of Blue Moon origin, but had defected to the Black Hole cause with Kailaff Boldigh soon into the invasion. Being a member of Boldigh's squadron, it had probably been quite hard for him to simply say "no" to the now-dead pilot, but sometimes, he sure didn't act like it. Zodo had been arrested by Orange Star forces after the battle over Fate's Point, quickly being taken into custody soon thereafter for interrogation. Strangely enough, he was released sometime later, and, as though considering such an action to be another of the billion ambiguous tests he'd already given poor Glenn, Commander George Beauregard had interrogated and eventually recruited the pilot into the Orange Star air force, placing him smack in the middle of Thunderbolt Squadron.

Apparently, Zodo Gallow was a good enough pilot to constitute him working to _reform, _as Beauregard had put it. The allied nations had reform programs that allowed this to occur, and at the prospect of helping society out, the Orange Star military had plunked him right into Thunderbolt Squadron. If anything, despite his general tolerance of it, Gallow seemed entirely unable to work at actually _seeming _like a pleasant fellow to be around. Evidently, he wasn't as fond of his new allies as he'd been of his old squadron.

Of course, Glenn had been dead-set against the idea from the very start, complaining of how a fellow like Gallow was a risk to he and his fellow wingmates, but Beuaregard, stubborn as he was, didn't put up with Gordon's whining for too long before threatening to throw him back into the stockade if another peep was made about it. So now Glenn had two rivals on his hands, one who could very well turn renegade at any waking moment. Thankfully, fratricide was one thing Glenn didn't have to go and actually talk about with Zodo. Beauregard had made the consequences of such actions very clear already.

"So," Gallow spat over the radio, his voice drowning in impatience, "what do we do now, fearless leader?"

Glenn frowned at the jet he thought was Gallow's, silently wishing there were some way he could pull the guy's ejection handle for him. "You hold onto your butts for orders, that's what. Let me scout around a minute and see what's next on the agenda."

At least Glenn's other comrades were easier to put up with. Crazy old Tuxedo Ral still spent the nights howling like a banshee and drinking every molecule of alcohol available on the Reagan base, Bubba Boggs was the same as he'd always been, Tristan Royal was still a green kid despite a few kills, and Rainey Banker was still Glenn's best "other" friend besides Tux. Glenn honestly still didn't know quite where he stood with Rainey, but it was clear the two of them were becoming more than just friends throughout this whole thing.

And finally, Achmed was still there too, just as baffling and unintelligible to Glenn as the guy had always been.

"Bubba, take Rainey, Fel, and Tristan and head over to the north section of the city. If the intel was correct, that's where most of their rocket units are set up at the moment." Glenn dipped his fighter onto its left wing and struck out from the group over towards a darker section of Kivari. The night sky was sure to light up any moment now with anti-air gunfire as they ventured into the deeper, more commercial areas of the community. "The rest of you, come with me. We'll handle the majority of anti-air in the west."

Four aircraft took off from the party, leaving Tux, Achmed, and Zodo to follow on after Glenn at just under mach one. Glenn gazed out the fighter's canopy, scanning the horizon for any visual sign of enemy bogeys, but thankfully, there was nothing. Yet, anyway. Those damned flies for fighters always liked to pop up at the least enjoyable occasion, usually right when a mission was near completion. "Make sure you guys keep an eye on your radars while we're in the thick of things. You know how the bandits are."

Glenn made sure his oxygen mask and orange helmet both were fitting tightly on his face as a determined glare accompanied his restlessness as he and three of his wingmates headed deep into the midst of what was sure to be air-to-ground combat, or what would at least hopefully be. He glanced over to his right, watching Tux bring his own fighter up alongside Gordon's – Just as a wingmate should. Before they knew it, they were in what intelligence predicted to be the main combat zone.

"Happy New Year, folks," Glenn muttered unenthusiastically.

A mixture of similarly bland responses mumbled back to him over the radio.

Suddenly, without warning, a volley of gunfire sprayed up at the four orange, mechanical vultures from not only the ground, but the top of numerous buildings as well. It lit up the night like some huge parade of fireworks, only these particular fireworks happened to be particularly lethal, and in addition also happened to be aiming directly for the Thunderbolts overhead.

_It's about time,_ Glenn thought as he shoved his fighter into a violent corkscrew through a barrage of ground-based gunfire, sending his head pushing to the side with a tremendous, invisible force. There was without a doubt much more of it than he'd predicted there would be, but this was no problem. The enemy forces didn't make up that intimidating a force. Not only that, but together, the four fighters had enough armaments equipped to take out any threat to them and more, so long as they didn't have the aiming skills of imperial stormtroopers.

"Tux, stay with me! Gallow, Achmed, you two take the gunfire coming from those buildings." Forcing himself to trust his two wingmates to do as he told them, Glenn shoved the control stick hard away from the bright yellow tracer rounds' origin points with Tuxedo Ral backing him up. "Come on around with me, bud, and stay as low as you can. They won't be able to get very good shots at us when we're goin' the speed of sound at 'em."

Tux grinned under his oxygen mask from the cockpit of his fighter. "Roger that, boss."

The two Orange Star fighters wheeled around and, as though making some daring and possibly suicidal move, headed directly back towards where the anti-air units sat immobile. Glenn personally had no idea whether or not Black Hole's anti-air machines were manned, as most of their technology wasn't, but he didn't let that deter him from nuking – or at least taking out of commission – these miserable rats taking potshots at him.

"Switching to freefall bombs." Glenn flipped a tiny switch on the fighter's control stick, effectively activating the aircraft's unguided bombs rather than the lock-on missiles. They would probably have a better impact on the anti-air units than any other armament would. "Watch my tail, Tux."

"You got it." Tux fell back slightly, making sure to do so, keeping an eye out for any other enemy force they may have not yet noticed.

Within moments, Glenn was pulling hard to starboard, sending his fighter away from whatever danger the ground hefted, Tuxedo Ral shooting away after him. A lone projectile soared directly towards the ground, sending the anti-air units scrambling to get away. Glenn didn't need to look back to know the bomb had made impact, thanks to the bright, red-orange explosions glancing off his canopy. Only seconds later, massive booms tore through the cockpit, despite how fast he was traveling.

"I'd say that mopped 'em up good," Tux bragged loudly, as though he were the one who'd claimed the kills.

"Right," Glenn grinned, pushing the fighter back towards where Gallow and Achmed scrambled to eradicate the ground threats to them. They were doing a good job of things, but they hadn't gotten rid of the anti-air units yet, and that made Glenn a teensy bit impatient with the situation. He decided he'd better give them a helping hand. Four were better than two, after all, and besides, they needed to clean things up before the land-based invasion of Kivari was to begin.

Together, the four Thunderbolts effortlessly took care of the remaining enemy anti-air units without too much response. Strangely enough, not only Tux was saddened by this, but Zodo Gallow was as well.

"Shootfire," one or the other complained – Glenn wasn't really paying enough attention to bother figuring out who was speaking, but he suspected it was Ral because Gallow didn't exactly yokel on with a fake southern accent like the other. "They didn't put up much of a fight. I'm disappointed with these folks for once."

"No, they didn't," Glenn said, not entirely fixed on whatever anyone else was blathering about over the radio at the moment. "Bubba, do you copy?"

Scratching ensued over the communications link. Bubba Boggs' voice arose, gunfire in the background, accompanied by the high-pitched scream of missile volleys. "I copy, Glenn!"

"Have you taken care of those rockets yet?" Glenn shifted his view off to port, where he assumed Bubba and the others were engaged in an up-close and personal battle with enemy ground forces. The occasional explosive flashes lit up the dark night's inky horizon, telling the Thunderbolt flight leader his assumption was correct.

"Not yet," Boggs responded, a tense drip to his otherwise easy tone, "but we'll have these guys wiped out in a few moments, I'd wager. We've taken out half of 'em already, so if our land boys are ready to go, give 'em the okay on our side of things."

"I copy, Bub'." Glenn switched the communications link to the Orange Star ground forces just outside Kivari, focusing his attention on the new task at hand. "Kivari invasion force, this is 207-Leader Lieutenant Gordon. We're pretty much taken care of things up here, so whenever you guys are ready to rock and or roll, go on ahead."

More scratching annoyed his eardrums. "Roger that, 207-Lead. Expect to see some fireworks in about three minutes."

Glenn smiled to himself, happily content with their accomplishing the mission's main tasks. Now, all they had to do was split before they got any unwanted company barging through the door – Like they always did. Feathering the fighter's throttle and sending it into a sweeping turn, Gordon turned his attention down to the city's dark buildings and streets, silently wishing his fighter's canopy somehow had nightvision capabilities. The technology just wasn't there yet, however close they may have been. Oh well – Glenn, if a bit arrogantly, felt he had the eyes of a hawk, and they'd been there for him even during situations like this. Who needed nightvision?

"Man," he heard Tux comment, "we could sure use some nightvision right about now."

Glenn sighed.

"Wait!" It was Gallow on the radio this time, sounding vastly concerned with some new and blindingly obvious event unfolding. "I've got radar confirmation on unknown units, Gordon. They're moving like tangos."

Glenn's expression turned black and he groaned exasperatedly. Just when he thought they'd get away without having to go in and kick some bogey butt, too. "Maintain visual scanning. We don't want to get mixed up in another Fate's Point here."

The others chuckled uncomfortably. Sure, they hadn't been in as many dogfights as usual since the Fate's Point battle, nor one as breathtakingly large, but at the same time, they still needed to keep on their toes. The Black Hole aircraft had good artificial intelligence, yet Glenn and the rest of the Thunderbolts had noticed sometimes blatant and other times miniscule errors in their flying here and there, and this was what often gave them the edge over the enemy in dogfighting: The Thunderbolts learned from their mistakes. The bad guys didn't.

"I still don't have visual confirmation," Gallow commented, gazing out his Orange Star fighter towards the horizon, where the radar assumed the enemy aircraft was.

"Me either, Glenn." Tux kept one eye on his own radar and the other out the canopy as best he could. "I'll bet they just up and ran off when they saw us ready to rock some faces out."

They'll be here soon, Glenn didn't have to say out loud. He already suspected there was more than one enemy aircraft. That's how it always was these days, considering Black Hole was stepping up their invasion forces without a fraction of a skip. Still, Glenn never let that get to him – He and the rest of the Orange Star air force wouldn't have gotten this far without having some obvious skill.

Ratcheting the throttle up to full, Glenn took off for the enemy bogey's position, the three other Orange Star fighters following suit quickly thereafter. Soon enough, the Thunderbolt flight leader could see more than a few opposing jets not all too far away – and headed right for these four Orange Star fighter jets. "There they are! Enemy bandits, bearing two-seven-five. Engage at will!"

"Woohoo!" Grinning widely, Tux let loose a cowboy whoop under his oxygen mask as he pushed his aircraft full bore at the Black Hole fighter jets speeding towards them, going head-to-head immediately, his comrades by his side. It was a general tradition among the group to listen for that very yell nowadays, and Glenn had to admit that it got his blood pumping quite well, despite knowing deep down he shouldn't try and acknowledge or encourage Tuxedo's utter recklessness.

The bandits blew past the Orange Star fighters, sending a violent wave of air rippling through the aircrafts. Glenn was the first to kick his fighter onto its side and bring it around to try and get behind one of the enemy planes, but he already knew the bogeys would be shooting this way and that. Oh well – He'd been in this position before and knew well what to do by then.

Slowing the fighter down as he opted to make his mark on the closest enemy, Glenn kept the jet on its side, predicting the bandit's erratic movements to bring it into his sights within moments. He'd grown somewhat used to dogfighting the Black Hole fighters, and by now he was more than a little bit aware of some of their flying patterns, making things worlds easier for him during combat.

The bandit juked to the right just as Glenn caught its tail. The Orange Star fighter pilot flicked the tiny switch on his yoke that moved the armed weapon mechanism back to missiles and continued his pursuit of the enemy jet, but the bizarre-looking Black Hole fighter was doing a pretty good job of trying to evade Glenn. Still, the Thunderbolt flight leader knew what he was doing.

Coming around a bend of taller, pitch-black Kivari buildings, Glenn focused on an imaginary point that the bandit would hopefully fly into within a half second. As soon as the enemy craft was lured into the spot, Glenn's fighter spat fire. The bright reddish-orange streaks blew at a scarily faster speed than he was traveling at, careening towards the side-winding bandit as walls and windows flew past the both of them.

As the chase left the buildings and came back around towards where the others fought, Glenn examined the damage he'd done and found it to be aggravatingly minimal. Yet now the bandit was spewing a bit of smoke from its rear, so at least the Thunderbolt knew he'd dished some punishment at all. Part of the Black Hole fighter's wing was now ripped as well, successfully impairing its wing and slogging the bandit down a notch.

With the enemy damaged, the rest would be easy – At least, Glenn hoped it would be. Black Hole's fighters seemed to be desperately tenacious at times, and while he knew he shouldn't let this annoy him, Glenn found it irritating to do so much damage yet still have to push himself to the extreme to win every fight. Oh well, he always thought, he would probably do the same.

Spinning into an inversion, the enemy bandit slipped down closer to the Kivari homes and streets. Glenn would have really liked to be able to shoot this piece of scrap down to where it wouldn't careen right into someone's bathroom, but the dogfight was occurring almost directly over the middle of the city and their land forces were just outside, ready to move. He would have no choice but to try and down this guy here and now. Hopefully Kivari's news stations had by now picked up on the ferocious noises coming from the skies, prompting people to get into shelters, and were keeping track of every move the fighters made – When they could be seen, of course. With how dark it was, someone on the ground would probably only be able to see one of the combatants when they got blown to kingdom come or landed smack on someone's roof.

Glenn charged downwards after the bandit, making sure to not again fire until the enemy craft rose up, not wanting to do any more damage to city property than was necessary. As soon as the Black Hole fighter began to level out, the Orange Star pursuer behind it again took its chances, letting loose a barrage of gunfire. Unfortunately, Glenn didn't make any contact with his shots this time because the bandit rolled like a ball out of the way and to his left.

The hell with this, Glenn thought, pressing a button on the control stick. On the screen in front of him, the missile lock-on sequence began as the mechanism attempted to grab ahold of the enemy fighter. A terribly irritating beeping sound accompanied the sequence, but Glenn ignored it as best he could, having grown as used to it now as he had fighting the Black Hole forces.

As the bandit looped up and leveled out in Glenn's view, the beeping became a constant tone. Without hesitation, the Thunderbolt leader's finger clipped the ominous red button on the front of the yoke, and the aircraft lit up with a fiery hue as the missile's rear erupted and sped out into the night at its target, as though it had been longing to be released like a bull ever since it had been slapped onto the fighter's wing.

"Hit, hit, hit!" Glenn wished out loud, wincing.

The missile screamed at the elusive bandit, leaving a trail of white smoke to accompany whatever fumes were escaping the enemy fighter's hull. Only a few bare seconds had to pass before the night sky over Kivari was lit up by Glenn's seventeenth accumulated air-to-air kill. Whatever was left of the Black Hole fighter went shooting in every possible, fiery direction, pieces of the destroyed craft either falling to earth in a blaze or simply disintegrating on the spot.

"Bandit down!" Glenn yelled happily, grinning under the oxygen mask while forcing himself to not go and pump a fist while taking his hand off the control stick.

"Glenn," he suddenly heard Bubba say, "the rockets are deadbeat – We're comin' to give you guys a hand! Estimated time of arrival is one and a half minutes."

"This thing'll be over by then, Bub', but thanks just the same." Glenn pitched his fighter into a sailing climb, steering the craft back over to where the rest of the dogfighters waged war. "So, anybody seen a bogey around here?"

Glenn got his equally-sarcastic answer. A pair of bandits blew past him on both sides, immediately followed by Zodo Gallow and Achmed Yahasititapen, both in mach pursuit of one enemy craft each. Easing the stick to the right, Glenn decided to give at least one of them a helping hand, though he knew well not to claim someone else's kill. That was just rude and an insult to a fellow pilot, so Glenn and the other Thunderbolts refrained from doing such a thing, so long as their buddies weren't in any big danger themselves.

"Glenn, bandit on your tail!"

Taking heed of Tuxedo's warning, Glenn kicked the fighter as hard as he could to port, slowing it down greatly as he strained to check his six o'clock. Sure enough, a rogue Black Hole fighter was coming around on him in a wide turn, and if Glenn didn't move like a rocket as soon as he could, that crazy son of a—

Too late. An even more annoying sound than the normal beeping tone sprang up in Glenn's cockpit. It really knew how to get a guy's attention, and it literally grabbed Glenn by the throat and shook him until his teeth rattled. "He's trying to get a lock on me!"

The easiest way to evade the skilled but somewhat flawed intelligence of the Black Hole fighters was to simply point a fighter spaceward and mash it, kicking in the afterburners. Not even artificial bandits could take the amount of air pressure one felt when nearly exiting Wars World's atmosphere, but Glenn wasn't about to kill himself attempting a moon mission. At forty thousand feet, with the bandit still behind him trying to reach out and smack him out of the sky with a missile, Glenn hauled back on the stick hard and suddenly sent his fighter plummeting back towards the dirt in a death dive.

As he did this, his speed shooting to well over a thousand miles an hour thanks to Wars World's gravitational force pulling him downwards like it used a giant, invisible hand, Glenn again checked behind him to see what his pursuer was up to. He couldn't help but smirk as he watched the bandit try and loop around to pull downwards only to sputter pathetically a moment and then begin dropping like a heap of rocks thanks to the air pressure shoving it downwards while trying up its components. Those things just didn't know when to use their afterburners correctly.

"Another bandit's done for," Glenn mentioned over the radio, pulling out of the dive. The Black Hole craft continued its doomed fall to the ground through his jet wash a moment afterwards.

"Congrats, Glenn." Tux pulled up alongside Glenn's aircraft, the two wingmen shooting back towards the others. "What's that? Eighteen?"

"I don't know," uttered a fairly baffled Thunderbolt leader. "I didn't really nail him, I just sort of outsmarted him."

"Well, if it means my catching up to you, then let's make it seventeen, eh?"

Glenn could almost feel the smirk on Tux's face as the wild man said that over the radio. Tuxedo was only three points behind Glenn in air-to-air kills, having become the third "ace" of the war behind Fel Banon in second since Thunderbolt Squadron was in combat almost twice or thrice a week, and while Glenn knew he probably shouldn't approve of such competitiveness in the team, he also felt that it kept everyone on edge; on top of their game. Such was necessary at times like this.

Scanning the horizon again, Glenn took notice of the three flock of Orange Star fighters. Bubba and the others had arrived to back up the other half of the squadron, and by now the rest of the bandits were bugging out and heading back to the hellhole they'd been spawned from. Glenn grinned widely and appreciatively of his fellow pilots. "Chalk another one up for the good guys."

Zodo and Achmed pulled up next to the two paired wingmen as the squadron began to take formation. Glenn hesitated a moment, examining the ground, watching the land invasion of the city begin. They would probably meet little resistance thanks to the 207th's work. Smiling, the Thunderbolt flight leader's eyes centered on some of the other fighters near his. "Everyone alright? No one got picked at by gunfire on the ground while you were handlin' those rockets?"

"Nah," Tristan Royal commented, unhooking his oxygen mask from his helmet considering how hot it could make a pilot's face, not being the only one to do so at the moment, "we were okay. Had to do some of that crazy pilot stuff, but you know how that is."

"I've got a pretty good idea how it goes, yes." Glenn ratcheted the throttle forward, increasing his speed a little, wanting to get out of the combat zone as quickly as possible for no particular reason. "Let's go home, folks. I'm not sure about you, but I need a drink."

"_You_ need a drink?" Tuxedo Ral laughed.

"Yes," Glenn muttered while trying to refrain from smirking, not wanting Tux's ego to get any bigger than it already was, "you're not the only one who likes to drink a while, though none of us want to get plastered to the point where we can't remember our names like someone else I know around here."

"Very funny," Tux responded, trying to not sound amused but not being overly successful at it as humorous chuckling from random Thunderbolts ensued over the radio. "That only happened once. May we drop it?"

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Author Notes:

I hath returned. Yeah, you're going: "Hey, what about Geist-Flieger"? Oh, you mean the story that I consider a failed and boring attempt at writing through the eyes of a bad guy. I hate to say it, but Glenn Gordon and the Thunderbolts are much more entertaining to write about. I guess I just happen to like them and have grown accustomed to writing about them. Anyway, this story probably won't be updated as often as the Fighters: Part II was, since I do have school to worry about… Ah well. Since I like Glenn and the bunch, I promise this story WILL be finished eventually and not be put on hold like Geist-Flieger was. I do hope you stick around, and reviews are always accepted and very appreciated as well. That's why keeps a guy writing, dontcha know.


	2. Human Spirit

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

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**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
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**---Mission Two – Human Spirit---**

Since Kivari's liberation had occurred at around two in the morning and Glenn and the squadron had gotten back to base near forty minutes afterwards, the flight leader hadn't been able to get that drink he'd been wanting, besides a cup of water. He would just have to wait until he got up in the morning to try and get his mind off things a little, but Tux had already bargained with him, literally forcing Glenn to head on into the nearby town with he and the rest of the squadron to get breakfast that day and talk.

Glenn hadn't had much of a choice, so when he got up, he had to almost beat Tux away with the closest stick so he could try and at least get ready for the day. "Hold your horses, willya? The food's not goin' anywhere."

"Yeah, well," Tux garbled as he leaned against their room's wall, smirking half-assedly at Glenn, "one Bubba Boggs is in a minute, and he's the guy we're ridin' into town with, so get your snail tail in gear."

The exhilaration of the New Year's night's events had long been worn off by the time Glenn was up and out of the shower. His attempt at relaxation seemed to greatly confuse Tux as they headed towards the Reagan base's parking lot, where Bubba sat in his beat-up old two-seat truck, the wasted thing backfiring occasionally even as it sat there immobile. Glenn sighed, knowing he'd be the one to have to sit in the middle, and he silently prayed the two characters didn't get into an argument or a fight like they always did whenever the three of them had to take Bubba's truck somewhere.

"Why are you so relaxed? Come on, we're gonna have fun." Tux grinned, strutting purposefully as he walked with Glenn towards the heap of noisy tin foil Bubba sat in, the big man periodically honking the extremely annoying horn, which sang "La Cucaracha" every time he pressed the blamed thing. "Don't you know HOW to have fun?"

"Of course I do," Glenn countered. "It's just that your take on 'fun' almost always has to involve scantily-clad girls wearing dollar-bill bikinis while holding a keg of beer in each hand."

"Hell yes that's my take on 'fun.' Ain't no one ever gonna get me hitched." The wildman snickered tactfully. Glenn couldn't help but chuckle as well, knowing not even a metal rope could keep Tuxedo Ral contained.

The drive into town didn't last long, although it seemed to take longer than usual because whenever the truck would pull up at a stop light, Tux would rest his arm on the open window and repeatedly raise his leery eyebrows at any pretty girls that were in his line of sight. Of course, they'd smile, perhaps wave, and right about then, Bubba would honk the horn. And poor Glenn was always right in the middle of the ensuing fight that followed.

Luckily, they reached the restaurant they aimed for before Glenn had to go and strangle the two of them until they each bought the farm, so the three of them headed in to meet up with their fellow Thunderbolts.

Glenn smiled a bit at the sight of all his fellow wingmates, with the exception of he and the two clowns he stood with, all grouped around a section of tables that had been pushed together. They headed over to the rest of the squadron and sat down, Glenn making sure to sit between a couple of folks he could deal with, like Rainey Banker and Tristan Royal. The rest – He had no desire to sit beside, especially Fel, Gallow, or even Achmed, who he liked but always had to order the most expensive and freakishly bizarre thing on the menu whenever they got a chance to go out and eat like this.

Tux and Bubba each took a seat as well, exchanging greetings with everyone. Of course, the co-flight leader of the Thunderbolts had to be his usual self at all times, including introductions. "We made it, we're here, Elvis has entered the building and all that. No autographs."

"It took you long enough," Fel Banon uttered, successfully countering Tuxedo's overzealous speech. Glenn shot a glare at Fel, though he didn't really bother to respond.

Tux, on the other hand, was glad to open his big yap and shove words down Fel's throat. "Aw, we were checkin' out the ladies. Ain't a whole lotta chics out there who can take their eyes off a couple hunky military guys like us."

Everyone just rolled their eyes. Glenn cleared his throat and exchanged looks with a slightly vexed Rainey, hoping Tux's especially fine way with words didn't get him into any more trouble with her than was necessary.

"Of course," the jester of the Thunderbolts continued, "they all got scared away when they took one look at Big Bubba over there. Shootfire, I would be too if I wasn't me."

Bubba clearly refrained from tossing the nearest saltshaker at the guy.

"Listen," Glenn started before a fight broke out all over the table because of Tux's mouth, "can we please not argue?"

The Thunderbolt flight leader had a point, and the rest of the squadron seemed to already know why. This was one of those rare occasions that they had some time off, despite being smack in a war. As soon as they got back to base, they could argue all they wanted, but Glenn honestly just wanted some peace within the group during this time of hopeful relaxation. Still, his views on fun clashed entirely with Tuxedo Ral's, and though Glenn could possibly bargain with the guy and give him a ten to put a cork in it for the remainder of this time, it wasn't likely that anything would work.

Oh well, Glenn thought. Perhaps this would yet work out in his favor. Unfortunately, right about then, their waitress lurched up, a big, heavyset, heavily-sweating woman who obviously thought that because these boys and girl were all clearly physically in-shape, they must be in the military. And Glenn and the rest of the world knew waitresses loved military folk. He forced himself to keep from groaning.

"Hey, guys!" the waitress bellowed. "You off base today? Ya havin' fun?"

"Hell yeah!" Tux nearly yelled. "We're havin' us a blast!"

"Yeah! And after this, we're gonna go and kick some more Black Hole butt!" Bubba raised that nearby saltshaker as though in a salute to his country. Cheering ensued from he and Tux. Glenn put a hand on his forehead, getting a rapidly-intensifying headache.

"Alrighty then! What kin I git fer yew?"

After the group spent nearly ten minutes getting their orders all shaped up and correctly put in, Glenn found himself in an even worse situation. This was one that he'd known to be inevitable, though. Somewhere deep down, he always knew something like this would happen eventually, and here at the table in the middle of this darned restaurant, it did.

"So, Gordon," Zodolphas Gallow uttered from the seat directly opposite to Glenn's, never bothering to call the Thunderbolt flight leader by his first name, "I'm fairly acquainted with most everyone among us at the moment, but you've never told me about yourself."

Glenn took a sip of his water, staring down Gallow. That must have been a lie – The Blue Mooner was the most distant member of the group. At least Fel Banon had gotten to know the rest of them, and it was well known that Gallow had never asked a single damned thing about anyone in the squadron. Hell, Glenn had spoken to Tristan the other day and the pilot had told the Thunderbolt flight leader that Gallow had growled a most inhuman thing to him when the poor kid had tried to make conversation. Maybe the only thing Zodo knew about Glenn was that he was from Green Earth and had been in its air force. Sadly, Gordon already suspected he knew where this was headed out a million possible directions. "You've never asked, Gallow."

"Well," Gallow returned, stone-faced, "you're the flight leader. Is it not your duty to know your wingmates?"

Hesitating, Glenn just looked at the table, still trying to get over his opinion that he was sitting across from a man who had been – and for all he knew, still was – one of his worst enemies. Zodo Gallow had been a part of Kailaff Boldigh's renegade squadron, second-in-command to be exact, and here the guy was, sitting right across from Glenn. This just didn't feel right. If the situation weren't as it was, Glenn would have slung his fist right across the table long ago and taken Gallow back into custody where he belonged. Stupid Commander Beauregard and his stupid recruitment ideas. "The squadron leader has many duties, but as far as I know, getting to know his associates personally is not one of them. It's up to the human spirit to accomplish that."

Something you probably don't have, Glenn didn't have to add.

Zodo stared at Glenn, as though reading the flight leader's mind word for word. "The human spirit. Not everyone could think up such an inspirational-sounding excuse."

Excuse? That chafed Glenn ever so slightly. And by now the rest of the squadron was sitting there, watching, waiting, all silent as the conversation played out before them. Even noisy old Tux was deciding to take a listen to it and not add his ever annoying commentary, which had to be a first. This was serious business, or so the rest of the squadron obviously felt.

"It's no excuse," Glenn beefed, raising his eyebrows slightly as though to question Gallow's spirit, deciding to go ahead and add his little input on there as well. "What – Don't you have one?"

Gallow just sat there.

"Perhaps," he finally said.

Glenn returned the fellow pilot's stare, feeling snow run through his bones.

"Hey, come on, guys," Tristan started as Glenn and Zodo glared bullets at each other, "let's change the subject. Tux, tell us about the time you met Commanding Officer Nell."

Tux crossed his arms as a big, doofy grin flew onto his face. "Way-ell, she sure didn't like it when I tried to serenade her—"

"No," Gallow interrupted. "I'd like to hear whether or not our fearless leader has what he calls a 'human spirit.'"

The chatter at the table halted like it had struck a stop light, and everyone's attention turned right back over to Zodo and Glenn – Mostly the latter. Gordon only paused, leering at Zodo until he could find the right words he wanted to use. At the same time, he had no idea what he wanted to say, and having Zodo and Glenn's own squadron sit there challenging him and staring him down wasn't making things any easier for him.

"What in blue blazes are you talking about?" he eventually asked, growing weary and annoyed over Gallow. This was just getting annoying, and Glenn was beginning to have about enough of it. Why must he be put into this position? What was with Beauregard and his damned decision to bring this renegade traitor into Thunderbolt Squadron?

"I think you know exactly what I mean," Zodo said quietly, everyone's attention focusing on him. "You fought in the first war."

What did the first war have to do with anything? Glenn shadowed his confusion well. "So what?"

The other pilot picked at a nail with one hand, looking down at the ground from his seat. "In this war, we've taken few actual lives. Our enemies are machines, scrapped together and thrown into combat with bland intelligence that knows nothing of pain, or sorrow, or suffering. Every time a Black Hole machine is destroyed, it's lucky because it has no family or friends that suffer because of the loss. Every time a Black Hole machine is destroyed, it doesn't feel its very soul burst into a fiery inferno as explosions tear its very being apart. The intelligence is intellectually flawed, and in some ways, at the same time, it is better than us because it has no human spirit. That is our flaw. The human spirit impairs us. It humbles us."

Gallow's dark eyes rose back up, staring directly into Glenn's shaken counterparts. "How does your miserable, wretched human spirit feel when it remembers the battles you fought, the battles where you blew apart Blue Moon's finest airman? No – Blue Moon's finest, most honorable people? They suffered, and because they suffered, I suffered. You caused my entire nation and I pain, sorrow, and suffering."

Glenn's hands were wrenched right on the edge of the table, and if his grip grew any stronger he'd threaten to tear the wood right off. Rainey started to put a hand on his, but no doubt thought it best not to even think about touching Glenn for the time being. "Is that what this is? This whole attitude of yours is based on vengeance and resentment over what Orange Star and Green Earth did to Blue Moon?"

"No," Gallow responded, all eyes on him, "it's based on the loss of my human spirit."

"Well, the hell with your human spirit," Glenn growled, getting riled up. "You betrayed Blue Moon in the end! You left with that rat Boldigh and fought for Black Hole!"

"That has nothing to do with it," the other pilot countered. "I didn't have much of a choice – Kailaff Boldigh wasn't a man you could say no to very easily without risking your being killed eventually, especially if you were an underling of his. At least I wasn't the dirty, mangy dog who couldn't cut it in Green Earth's air force."

That lit Glenn like a fuse. Everything that had happened to him while employed in Green Earth was, as known by most at the table, a very touchy subject with him, and the only thing keeping him in the chair and from throwing it into Gallow's head was Rainey finally putting her hand on his own vein-popping fists. "You worthless, scrounging, detestable son of a bitch; if you weren't a member of my team and I could do so without getting tossed into the nearest jail cell, I'd—"

"You'd what?" Gallow challenged.

"Hey!" Tux suddenly yelled. "Cool it, the both of ya's!"

"Mind your own business, Ral!" Fel Banon immediately countered, also cutting in on the conversation.

Riled up, Tux pointed a middle finger in Fel's direction. "Here's what your momma said about you last night, you jackass."

"Hey, SHUT UP!" Glenn threw his hands forward for emphasis before Fel could get a chance to bushwhack Tux to the other side of the room. "Everyone just HOLD it! God almighty, if we all don't just settle down a minute, we'll get our faces plastered on the evening news and a couple of wanted posters at the same time if we're not careful, so everyone just hold their tempers."

The table was quiet, and for a moment, it seemed like the rest of the room was, too.

At that moment, their food arrived. Gallow's attention spun right from Glenn, now concentrating on filling his gut. Glenn could only sit there and try and think about the conversation slash argument that had just occurred within his squadron. No leader ever wanted to see such a thing. The last thing he wanted was for this group of the only friends he now knew to fall apart.

Unfortunately, he just didn't know if he were a good enough leader to keep this from happening eventually. There were undeniable turbulences in the group – Turbulences that would have to be sorted out some time.

The entire table was silent for the rest of the meal.

--- --- ---

They were assembled in a dark hangar. The cold, scorned rain outside threatened to prohibit any talk that would occur thanks to the aluminum roof and the pitter-pattering sound the water made, but they wouldn't let that impede on the conversation at hand. If the meeting didn't happen here and now, it never would, and the big-wigs would just never allow that to occur. This had to go down.

The group watched the dark-clad man sip a cup of steaming coffee silently, no doubt longing for some of their own thanks to the icy cold that the night's weather brought with it. Even though the hangar's large, aluminum door was shut tight, it was still bastardously cold inside the building. The lot of them only had their clothes and black bomber jackets to keep themselves warm.

It was only a matter of time until the man lowered his coffee as he sat there on a lone crate. "I recommend you get used to this sort of weather. The longer you stay on our continent, the more you'll see of it."

No change in expressions or demeanors came from the group of eight, who each also rested themselves on an empty wooden crate. From looking, one could tell that this hangar was new, and would perhaps be used for a newer squadron. The group wasn't alone, though – A flock of random, assorted fighter jets sat not far from where they were coupled, each painted an ominous black color. Yet they didn't have the appearance of Black Hole fighters. These jets had the look of Orange Star, Green Earth, Blue Moon, and Yellow Comet fighters, only all of their hues had now been changed to that of black.

"My leader," the man stated, "has decided that though our forces, while strong in ways, are weak in others. I'm certain all of you are aware of our forces' conditions, so I shall make this quick."

The man paused and took another sip of coffee before continuing. "Perhaps you have heard of Kailaff Boldigh."

No one said or did anything.

"We thought him to be the greatest pilot in the world." The man hesitated, then looked as though he were refraining from smiling or chuckling. "How wrong we were. A single pilot does not make up an entire squadron, and that is what we needed. Boldigh, as good a pilot as he was, simply did not have the efficiency and tenacity that an entire fighter squadron has.

"I'm sure all of you heard of what happened at our Fate's Point location. It turned out Boldigh wasn't as great as he'd like to think he was, and with the exception of one or two, the rest of his squadron wasn't worth anything themselves to begin with. That is why we must begin anew; to put together another fighting force compiled of the best and only the best. Not the best and seven worthless messes. This is where you come in."

Again, another light sip of the brown stuff was made. It was a light torture for the pilots. "You are all here because we need the best. Your reasons are perhaps the same, or perhaps different, but we've assembled here because the world is at the Black Hole cause's mercy. In this war, you are now making a commitment for whatever reason towards my nation and my superior.

"We no longer have much use for artificial intelligence in important combat missions. Only true human beings can accomplish the necessary tasks that will be given unto you eventually. You will be in combat against our opponent's finest combatants, but while Kailaff Boldigh was one great pilot, you are several great pilots. With your combined strength, our enemies' defeat will come about sooner than we'd before predicted.

"However, before you can truly begin your assault, there are a few things that need to be worked out." The man's eyes flashed over the group, who already knew exactly what he was talking about. "We will send you first into Orange Star. There, you will handle some of our more dangerous adversaries, including ground forces, naval platoons, and one or two fighter and bomber squadrons. At the moment, we believe the air squadrons to be the largest threat, and you'll deal with them first."

One of the pilots raised a curious eyebrow. "The same squadrons that destroyed the Black Cannon?"

The man paused, as though deciding whether or not to allow the other fellow the privilege of an answer, then made his decision soon enough. "Possibly. Many participated in that attack, although we are aware of who made that final raid on the Cannon thanks to some of our surveillance discs. That squadron will be the first you'll eliminate. They shall be your first priority.

"Remember that while the element of surprise is always welcomed, with you, it will not be necessary, for your power is unmatched. You are the new tactical strike force for Black Hole's cause: the Black Judgment Squadron, and all shall fall to your skill."

-----------------

Author Notes:

Another chapter down. I'll mainly use this space today to answer a question that came from our pal, Dr. Bross, since I'm pretty sure he'll probably read this.

The answer: Definitely. Feel free to use the Thunderbolts in the Death Array. I recommend using them as the squadron stands at the time of this chapter. If you only want to use some of them, cool. If all, cool. I'll make sure to include some mention of whatever incident you're going to put them in whatever future chapter I write that could involve it. It's always nice to intertwine fanfiction stories by different authors, kind of like Star Wars' "Expanded Universe." Anyway, I know you'll get their personalities down perfectly, too. Just… make sure no one gets killed. Or loses a body part. Yeah, other than that, cool with me. Can't wait to see the work.


	3. Training Hop

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

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**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Three – Training Hop---**

"Listen up, folks."

The little excursion in the restaurant had occurred only a few hours before. Glenn had been glad to get it over with as soon as they had, but had returned to Reagan Air Force Base only to discover that no missions were lined up, waiting to be executed. At first, he couldn't tell whether or not he should be either happy for this or sad that he wouldn't get to take a smack or two at whatever Black Hole forces lay waiting to be kicked around, but before he could even think about heading off for some well-earned relaxation, Commander Beauregard had thrust an order his way.

By now, all eight members of the squadron were assembled in one of Reagan's hangars, the heavy door pushed wide open as their fighter jets sat waiting outside under the hot morning sun. These weren't the typical aircraft the Thunderbolts normally flew, though – While they were the exact same model as the standard Orange Star fighter jets, they were painted much differently. Most of their outer shells consisted of a gray hull, as though the fighters had been passed over completely for the standard orange hue, but on four of them, a thick green stripe ran through the wings while on the other half, an equally fat blue stripe coated the wings.

Glenn had recognized them immediately when he'd first entered the hangar and sat down on one of the metal folding chairs. The aircraft patiently waiting outside were some of Orange Star's many training fighters. Even though they were meant for flight-educational purposes, though, they certainly were combat-ready. If Glenn's normal, issued fighter ran away on him sometime, he could just hop right into one of these after they mounted missiles on – as the trainers didn't need them – and shoot away to join his comrades.

"_Ahem!_" Beauregard cleared his throat, finally catching Glenn's attention, causing the pilot's face to turn a notoriously reddish hue. "_LISTEN UP_, folks. Since we don't have any missions in store for you at the moment, we'll just have to send you up for training. You won't get much use out of the simulators anymore, though, since those can't take the place of the real thing. I'll be quick about this: Half of you on one team, the other half on another."

_Oh no,_ Glenn thought. Just what he needed – His own squadron getting split into two and going after each other. He proceeded to remind himself over and over that this was just for training, but that still didn't make him feel any better about it.

"Once an opponent has locked onto you, you're done. Head back here when that happens. When every plane on a team is gone, other team wins. We'll start you in different areas as well." Pointing over a group of rocky mountains, Beauregard gestured to the Thunderbolts. "Green Team will start over the range in sector one-two-one. Blue Team will begin over the base."

Glenn just shook his head, still not liking this. The others, on the other hand, seemed as though this were going to be fun. How could it be fun? It was friend against friend. Glenn found it ridiculous and perhaps even a waste of time. Not only that, but it was too risky. Unfortunately, he didn't even bother opening his mouth. Beauregard never listened to the Lieutenant and rarely granted anything he asked for.

"Gordon," Beauregard then said, eyeing the flight leader, "you'll be in charge of Blue Team."

"Woo," the pilot returned, spinning his finger around in a circle.

Beauregard successfully ignored Glenn's lack of enthusiasm. "You'll be partnered with Royal, Boggs, and Banker."

Tristan, Bubba, and Rainey. At least those three, he could count on, but that meant...

"Ral," the Commander uttered, turning to Tux, "you're leading Green Team. You'll be flying with Banon, Gallow, and, uh, Yuh-horse-a-tit... uh, tit..."

"Yahasititapen!" Achmed grumbled irritatedly.

"Now we're talkin'." Tuxedo grinned widely at the thought of being in charge for once, not noticing Glenn's very clear groan of exasperation.

Beauregard waved a hand towards Tux and his team. "Get goin'. Blue Team will be up shortly afterwards."

"Let's ride!" Tux hefted himself up out of his seat and nodded his head towards the wide open door towards the tarmac outside where their jets sat immobile. The three other pilots immediately got up out of their own chairs and picked up their respective helmets & oxygen masks from a nearby table that had been pushed over to the group. Glenn narrowed his eyes, watching them leave, still finding this whole idea utterly repulsive with every thought about it, but before he could make any childish vomiting expressions and noises, Gallow and Fel stopped and turned to him.

Glenn stared at them, as though to ask, 'what the hell do you two geniuses want?'

Fel just smirked at him and continued on, but Gallow stood there a moment longer, leering at the Thunderbolt flight leader until he finally said something.

"I do hope this little exercise does not further burden our remarkable partnership," he said, expressionless, his thick, sarcastic Blue Moon accent only helping to piss Glenn off more. And he walked away, leaving Gordon and his three teammates to sit there gawking after him.

Bubba was the first to speak up after the few silent seconds had come and gone. "What in thunderation is his deal, anyway?"

"Beats me," Tristan uttered, his quiet voice sounding inappropriately deep and testy. "And maybe I don't want to know why he's so anal all the time. Whatever the reason is, it's gotta be bad."

Rainey just sat there, staring after the exiting pilot.

After a few moments, Glenn noticed her staring, and did a double-take towards Gallow, then centered his attention right back at Banker. "What's the matter?"

"He makes me nervous," she answered quietly, her eyes still locked on Gallow. The lids fluttered over them for a moment.

Raising an eyebrow, Glenn still took her words to heart. "Don't let him get to you. Fel can act like that, too—"

"No," Rainey interrupted, sparing a hair of a second to glance at Glenn, "Fel doesn't act like that at all. He doesn't scare me – he's just got a big ego."

She hesitated, still looking towards Gallow as the Blue Mooner equipped himself with his helmet and oxygen mask while he started to take his seat in his fighter, its engines warming up noisily. For the most part, he was entirely ignoring the group still in the hangar, but that didn't ease up any of the fidgeting going on within its comfort. "His presence makes me uncomfortable. In many ways."

"Many ways?" Glenn's other eyebrow rose to join in on the confusion.

Rainey didn't answer. She just looked down at the ground.

"Look," the squadron flight leader started, "the guy is dangerous, yes. I know that more than anyone. But he's one of us now. He's on our side. He knows damn well what'll happen to him in any thought about fratricide enters that tiny little mind of his. I mean, come on, if he were to take one of us down, the rest of us would be all over him in two seconds."

"It's," Banker suddenly quipped, "it's not that. Never mind."

"Blue Team!" Commander Beauregard yelled, successfully disrupting whatever conversation was going on within the small group. "Get moving! Strap yourselves in and wait for Green Team to get to the mountains, then head out and engage at your leader's will."

Glenn exchanged a look with Beauregard, then turned his attention back to Rainey, wishing he had a bit more time to talk to her at the moment. Her behavior struck Glenn as all wrong, but he didn't openly show it. "Don't be afraid of him. It's not worth it."

Again, no outright response came from Rainey Banker. For a moment, Glenn thought she looked sad over something, but he decided it was his imagination. Forcing himself to refrain from openly shrugging, he lifted himself from his seat and gestured towards the hangar's wide entrance-exit where one of the Green Team members was taking off from the runway and racing out into the wild, clear blue skies.

"Let's get going. We don't want to risk Tux bragging about a win over us for weeks, do we?" Glenn grinned, and at this remark, the rest of his team did too.

--- --- ---

"Tally ho on the Green boys! Here we go!"

The training jets's afterburners kicked into full gear, shooting directly down at where Green Team's fighters as three other trainers zoomed along after it. Glenn's dive wouldn't be of much use in a minute, though – Tux and his fellow Green-mates had already spotted Blue Team and were spreading out like a swarm of bees after different targets.

Glenn found himself speeding in pursuit Green Team's leader, Tuxedo Ral himself. "Alright, Tux, let's see what you've got. This is a step up from the sims – Have what it takes?"

"Speak for yourself," Tux coolly replied over the radio link, smirking smoothly under his oxygen mask.

Glenn watched as Green Team's lead aircraft shot upwards like a bullet, and all he could do was slow his own fighter down and haul back on the stick. Tux's fighter looped back, and after only a few seconds, was completely inverted to Glenn's.

Shoot, the Thunderbolt flight leader thought to himself. Henpecked already and they weren't even ten seconds into this whole bit of nonsense. Still, he wasn't going to let an arrogant trash-talker like Tux knock him around just yet. Despite being against this exercise, Glenn had to admit it made him feel competitive, and he undeniably wanted to best everyone else, whether his own team helped out or not.

Then he shook his head slightly, getting those thoughts out of his head. This was still ridiculous no matter how he looked at it. A team shouldn't be pitted against itself.

"Glenn, he's gettin' around on you!"

Taking heed of Tristan's warning, Glenn snapped himself back to attention and strained to turn around in his seat to check his six. "Where is he, Trist'?"

"He's comin' around at your seven!" Tristan's fighter rocketed past his own, but Glenn didn't notice. Sure enough, Tux's fighter had successfully looped around on Glenn's thanks to the Thunderbolt leader's short lack of engrossment in what he was doing. By now, Green Team's lead plane was leveling out and pursuing Glenn without hesitation.

"Get 'im, Tristan! You know how tenacious old Tux can be sometimes." That said, Glenn shoved his trainer into a series of violent aerobatics, Tuxedo Ral still in hot pursuit, matching all the maneuvers with what appeared to be the simplest of ease.

"Shootfire, Glenn," he suddenly heard his would-be interceptor brag over the transmission, "is that all you've got? You're flyin' like a... a... cargo jet flyer!"

The guy gave a mock scream, then cackled wickedly as though that were the world's greatest insult. Glenn had to admit, it got his blood going slightly. The thought of ever leaving the cockpit of a fighter jet for one of those blamed things wasn't pretty. "Put a lid on it, Tux."

Tristan's own fighter was just starting to loop around on Tux's tail, but the moment he leveled out and began a pursuit of the pursuer, a noisy beeping sound arose in the teen's cockpit. "Uh--! What the hell?"

"Strike three!" It was the voice of Fel Banon, his overly-egotistical tone scratchy thanks to the radio. "You're out."

Groaning, Tristan piloted his aircraft away from the hot group of dogfighters. "Sorry, Glenn."

"Don't worry about it," Glenn responded uneasily, wincing slightly. The score was already one to zip, and he had Tuxedo Ral attached to his bumper like he was roped to Glenn's fighter. The Thunderbolt flight leader would have cursed to himself, but since this was only an exercise, he didn't bother. This whole thing wasn't a matter of life or death – But Glenn still questioned whether or not this made him feel competitive.

"Damn it!" he suddenly heard someone yell over the radio, and he immediately recognized it as Fel's.

"So much for your career as an umpire, Fel." Rainey clearly chucked to herself, allowing Glenn to grin for a few tenths of a second. He watched as Banon's fighter broke away from the dogfight and followed along after Tristan's, the two trainer craft both headed back to the Reagan base.

Maybe now things will go a little more smoothly for us, Glenn thought to himself. But as he spared another quick glance to his six, he noticed Tuxedo was no longer there, and he immediately wondered out loud what had happened to the Green Team leader. "Where's Tux?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Ral replied sarcastically at the mention of his name. "Where are YOU, Glenn?"

"Oh, come out from behind the curtain, you—" And when Glenn turned his head toward the other direction to check out the opposite side of his canopy, his eyes caught sight of Tux's fighter, almost barely above his own yet still behind him. The bottom of the Green Team leader's aircraft was completely exposed to Glenn, so the guy had no way of seeing Blue Team's main fighter was right in his blind spot. Glenn, with his erratic movements, had successfully evaded Tux, but only until he could truly get away from the other pilot's possible pursuit direction.

The hole would only be open for a few seconds, but Glenn made good use of it. He pitched his fighter downward and to starboard, sending his aircraft right under Tux's at five hundred miles an hour. As soon as he was below the "enemy" pilot, he pulled back on the yoke hard to counter the direction he was headed.

From his cockpit, Tux's helmeted head flung back and forth to check and see where his opponent could have gone. The most logical explanation was that Glenn was 'under' him, at least from the Green Team leader's point of view and direction, but as he spared one final look to the right, he spotted Glenn's trainer shooting upwards at an alarming rate of speed. And with the way Blue Team's leader was pointed as he sped skyward, there was a darn good chance he'd get on Tux's tail in a few moments. "Oh, we think we're 'leet, don't we?"

"Surprised?" Glenn snickered. Banking the aircraft hard and pointing it at the floor as he started to try and come around on Tux, he watched as Green Team's would-be flight leader began his own series of erratic movements, zooming this way and that way and upwards and downwards in rolls and swoops.

"Oh no," he suddenly heard Rainey grumble. He detected the familiar missile-warning tone in the background of the transmission. "I'm sorry, Blue Team."

"It's alright, Rainey. Just be glad it isn't the real thing."

With that, the score was two to one.

Glenn found it utterly difficult to keep with Tux – The guy was second-in-command of the Thunderbolts during flight for a reason, after all, but Glenn wasn't in charge of the squadron himself without there being a good reason behind it. His determination rising rapidly, he charged on after Tux and started the lock-on procedure when the other fighter slowly began to come into his sights, despite the constant jerks and jukes.

"I have you now," he couldn't help but bellow in a deep voice, as though he were in the middle of the end of a certain sci-fi movie he'd watched with Rainey a few nights ago, despite being utterly confused by the whole thing.

And, as though on cue, there it came. The ever-annoying beeping sound, racing through the cockpit.

Glenn blinked rapidly, his attention fluttering from Tux to whatever in blue blazes was going on behind him. "What in red hell—"

The irritating beeping easily informed him of an attempted missile lock, sounding out from somewhere in the cockpit. Cursing out loud, Glenn was forced to again haul back on the stick and shoot away from his pursuit after Tux. As he shot to one side, he looked back out the canopy and saw a random Green Teamer on his tail.

"Easily frightened, are we, Gordon?"

Even Zodo Gallow's very voice could irritate Glenn, as he'd discovered this morning, and it did so right then. Still, this was a chance to take it to the Blue Mooner, to steal away some of the guy's thunder, some of his arrogance and blatant egotism. Then again, Gallow wasn't necessarily arrogant like Banon – He was just a heartless cretin, or so Glenn felt. That was all.

"Come on and get me, Gallow!"

Already, he could see Gallow's afterburners engaging as the opposing pilot started his own pursuit of Blue Team's leader. Glenn sent his own trainer into a series of violent rolls as he attempted to elude Gallow before the chase even got started, but Gallow hung with him as well as any pilot Gordon had ever dogfighted.

Frowning in frustration, Glenn ratcheted the trainer's throttle up to full and continued the evasive maneuvers, red filling the corners of his vision on more than one occasion.

But Zodo Gallow still hung onto him. Whatever Glenn did, the guy just wouldn't leave him alone. Yanking the stick this way and that way, Glenn tried everything he could pull out of his mental book of flight aerobatics, but it seemed as though Gallow had stolen the Thunderbolt flight leader's notes and was cheat-sheeting off him. "Doggone it!"

And by now, he could see that Tuxedo was making a wide turn to starboard himself that, while opening distance from Glenn, would inevitably allow him to slip in behind Blue Team's leader as well, should Gallow flogg up his pursuit. Things couldn't get any worse for Glenn. Now all he needed was for a couple of Black Hole bandits to intercept the whole lot of them and get them all scrambled up even more. Knowing Gallow, he'd probably still go after Glenn if a group of bandits came.

"Oh, hell no!" It was Tux on the radio this time.

"My apologies to he who claims himself to be the world's greatest pilot every night," Bubba Boggs laughed.

Glenn gazed back from his seat and noticed Tux's aircraft breaking away from the pursuit. And in just a moment, Bubba would inevitably have Gallow lined up in his sights as well. "Alright, Bubba!"

Not a half-second passed until the said inevitable came. Bubba lined up Gallow within his aircraft's gun sights, but the Green Teamer's trainer shimmied away and duked to the left, sprinting away from the line the fighters ran in. "He's off you, Glenn, he's bugged out."

"The only bug around here is you, Boggs, and I hope you don't mind being swat—"

"Aw, shut up, Fel!" Bubba glared in the direction of the Reagan base, where Fel Banon and Tristan were presumably beginning to make their landings.

His lack of attention was his undoing. Before Bubba could continue concentrating on the task at hand, a continuous beeping sound came about in his cockpit. It was constant, a non-stop tone. "Uh?"

Glenn blinked confusedly. "Bubba?"

"Shoot, Glenn, heads up!"

Bubba's warning was, in the end, worthless. As soon as he'd uttered the command, which had startled Glenn a good deal, the same sound howled endlessly in the Blue Team's leading aircraft. Glenn hesitated, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was struck cold by the sound. "Who the hell?"

And when he turned around in the seat and struggled to look behind him, to check his six, he saw one lone Green Teamer on his tail, just moving past Bubba's would-be doomed aircraft. But that couldn't have been Zodo – The guy was still looping around, having just broken away from their pursuit. But who could have…?

Achmed. Glenn closed his eyes, sighing, and turned back around. "Should have known."

"Like you said, Gordon," Gallow uttered, his normal voice sounding scratchy over the radio, "at least it's not the real thing."

Glenn's eyes narrowed, forcing himself to not go and blurt out that he already knew that a hell of a lot better than anyone else. Banking his trainer, he pointed its nose back towards Reagan "Alright, folks, let's head back to base."

The rest of the aircraft in the skies followed on after him, silence ensuing over the radio. He didn't have to mention how glad he was to get this over with. The competitive edge that had been instilled in him for the duration of the mock dogfight had worn off – Glenn was just glad they were a true team again.

Yet at the same time, he wasn't so sure of that thought.

-----------------

Author Notes:

I'm burnt out after this chapter. Wrote it all in one sitting. I know I shouldn't do that, but, eh, my very being is kept alive by repeated late-night viewings of Top Gun, continuous late-night playing of Ace Combat 04, non-stop listening to "Mighty Wings" on my Top Gun soundtrack CD, and that wonderfully magical substance that children still sign songs about to this day known as caffeine. Hope you enjoyed it, and the next one will be up soon, hopefully.


	4. Reflections

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Four – Reflections---**

_Thunk._

"Damn!"

Tuxedo Ral thrust another projectile at the thick, dart-filled board hanging on the wall in the pilot's lounge. At the moment, he hadn't made one direct hit on the ugly face of a random Black Hole soldier's picture in the middle of the board, but he refused to give up just yet, despite he'd been trying to hit the blamed thing for weeks on end every time he came into the lounge. Tux was a good pilot, yes, but Glenn wouldn't want him on his team in a dart-throwing competition.

"Give up, Tux!" Bubba groaned from the lounge's couch as Glenn sat with him, watching a small television on the bar's top that was airing some ridiculous fighter pilot movie full of military mistakes. He wasn't paying much attention to it, and only picked up on it whenever any sort of aircraft was shown, though most of them just got blown up. Silly action movies. Tristan Royal, sitting in a chair beside the couch, seemed more interested in the film than the Thunderbolt leader did, so he left it on anyway.

"Go fall in love with a tree limb," the competitive Ral returned, hurling yet another dart at the board and again falling up just short of the bull's-eye. "Gall-dayumn!"

Bubba just laughed, partially at Tux's fake, light southern accent. "My dead uncle Bobbo could hit that target half-wasted and upside down through a fence."

"Yeah, really," Tristan snickered, joining in on the rare 'smite the might of Tux' moment. "And Bubba's told me about his uncle. The guy's locked in a mental clinic and he could do better than you any day!"

"I reckon I'll turn both your ugly mugs into a dartboard in half a second if you don't can it," Tux grumbled as he tried again to hit the board, silently wondering how long it would take to go out and string up a hanging rope for the both of them.

"Too bad you're about as blind as a bat," Bubba Boggs remarked tenaciously. "You're probably break the window aimin' for us."

"Or the TV." Tristan crossed his legs, grinning at Tux and fully enjoying the moment.

Tuxedo Ral was the only one who didn't know Tristan always wanted to dish out some return vocal punishment to the guy. Practically everyone on base knew about how the young fellow always wanted to blurt the most sarcastic, funny thing right in Tux's face, but it had never worked in the few times he'd tried it. Either Tristan hadn't gotten up enough courage or mental wickedness to jaw much other than a gaggle of seemingly lost and rather unfunny phrases, or Tuxedo had outright jumped back and slammed the poor kid with what had to be the universe's greatest comeback. Glenn honestly felt bad for Tristan at those times and wished he could shove a big book of insults in the kid's brain to put Tux into his place – and zip up that big yap of his.

"Or the radio!" Bubba laughed. "Or the broad side of a barn! Wait, no, you'd never hit that. Just like how you'd never hit me in that exercise even with a thousand chances. You've lost your touch, Tux."

Glenn tried to ignore the conversation, but he couldn't. It was impossible to ring it out in his mind because he was sitting right next to bigmouth Bubba. What annoyed him more though was his opinion – no, the fact that Tuxedo Ral was a better pilot than both Bubba Boggs or Tristan Royal and they were dogging him about it. Sure, Bubba had gotten Tux earlier in the exercise, but it wasn't like the squadron's clowny second-in-command hadn't bested Boggs in the sims before. Besides, Tux had more kills than both of the two pilots combined, and he had displayed not only skill in the sky but trustworthiness and comradery. That was why he was Glenn's best friend and Bubba and the others weren't.

"Yeah," Tristan kept on, not noticing the annoyed look appearing on Glenn's face, "and you'd never hit me, either. Not in a million whole years."

"Heck, you got outta there in two seconds, Royal." Bubba crossed his arms. "'Course, it's not like he would have gotten you anyway even if you'd stayed in."

Tuxedo bit his tongue to keep from hammering Bubba right in his fly trap, and his hand gripped one of the darts so hard he threatened to squeeze it right in half.

Glenn's expression finally turned just sour enough for the others to catch wind of it, and his brow furrowed, not necessarily looking at any of them as he spoke. "Take it easy, boys. There's been enough turmoil around here lately already."

"Aw, Glenn, we're just havin' some fun." Bubba grinned, then made an immature face at Tux since their leader wasn't bothering to eyeball them. Tux returned the favor by thrusting a closed fist towards Bubba, positioning a dart where his middle finger would be.

"So, Mr. Flight Leader," Tristan said, turning to their squadron captain, "what'd you think of that exercise this morning anyway?"

Glenn hadn't talked much of the little practice round Commander Beauregard had forced them into sometime earlier that day. There was no doubt afterwards that he'd been especially vexed by the whole thing, what with a sudden but temporary attitude twist. Still, despite his obvious irritation with the exercise, he hadn't readily come out and mentioned exactly how he felt about it – Perhaps because no one had bothered to ask until now.

The flight leader hesitated before responding, and propped one leg up onto the table by the couch. "I didn't like it."

"That much was obvious," Tux chuckled, thrusting another dart at the board. It was a good thing he wasn't playing anyone for money. "GOD CRAP SON OF A DAMN!"

"Why didn't you like it?" Tristan had been silently and utterly perplexed by Glenn's whole problem with the exercise, and he wanted to know exactly what their superior found so horrible about it. It wasn't like they had really been in combat, so what was the deal here?

Again, Glenn just hesitated, his pupils jolty – A visual clue that his thoughts were hard to comprehend.

"I guess I kind of forgot what it was like to go into combat against real people," he finally answered. "It was a hell of a lot harder than fighting those Black Hole artificial intelligence fighters."

Glenn wouldn't mention anything else, nor the fact that Zodo Gallow's little human spirit commentary had been troubling him ever since the exercise. He found the thought of having to dogfight another actual person again very disturbing, and while he knew he was trained for that sort of thing, he'd grown comfortable dogfighting Black Hole's aircraft. He didn't want to go back to the old ways. Besides – He did enough fighting with Fel Banon and Gallow anyway.

"I had a blast," Tux snickered. "It's a lot more fun doggin' each other than it is those lousy Black Hole losers. They're hardly even a challenge anymore, I'd say."

Bubba's eyes closed halfway as he leered at the ever-arrogant Tuxedo Ral. "Yeah, you sure look like you had fun when I took you out of the practice. I know I did. You're just losin' your touch if anything."

"Get your lazy gluteus maximus off that couch and say that over here, camel face." The Thunderbolt Squadron's second-in-command scowled menacingly, lining up Bubba's big head with one of his few remaining darts.

"You've lost that lovin' feelin', Tux!" Bubba half-sang, half-cracked.

"Would you knock it the hell off?! Damn, you're drivin' me nuts!"

The entire room quieted easily with Glenn's extremely annoyed words. Tristan was the first to speak after the momentary silence. "Jeez, Glenn, chill out. What's the problem? Tux and Bubba are at it all the time and you never seemed to care."

"Yeah, well," the Thunderbolt flight leader grumbled, "would it hurt us to not get all uppity and argue every so often? It isn't that much to ask. I mean, sheez, we're in a war here."

"Not argue!? Not make fun of Bubba!?" Tux grabbed his throat with his free hand and made obscene choking noises.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt," Tristan responded, successfully ignoring Tux's increasingly tasteless animations. "But we know we're a team – It's not like we've never thought of ourselves as anything other than that. Heck, you guys are some of the best friends I've ever known in my whole life. And don't forget about that 'exchange' you're always talkin' about, Glenn."

Tristan had a point, especially with the 'exchange' bit. The exchange, as far as Glenn was concerned, was the premise of all the squadron members entrusting their lives to one another while up in the air. If another squadronmate was in trouble, one always helped them, so long as it wouldn't get themselves killed. Sure, it was a normal activity in any squadron or military team, but Glenn made damn well sure that his comrades were fully aware of it and it wasn't just something that "went without saying."

"That's true." Glenn hefted his leg off the table and sat up, resting his hands together on his lap. "I just have doubts these days with an arrogant hotshot like Fel Banon or a weasel like Zodo Gallow around, both of which are members of the exchange."

"It's a wonder why they ain't friends," Tux commented, leaning against the wall as he spun one of the darts around casually, "the two of them might as well get married, they're such rats."

Glenn sighed. "I need to think of a way to get their heads out of the clouds and get them to realize that they're part of this team now, and how we shouldn't be at each other's throats all the time. I don't really want to talk to either of them at all, at any time, but I think I'll have to eventually."

"Well," Tux yammered, snickering a bit, "you can damn well try with Fel Banon, but that Gallow, he's as stubborn as old Bubba there in a sandwich shop. He just won't go until he has exactly, and I mean exactly what he wants, so to speak. Right, Bub'? Don't tell me you forgot about that time—"

"I don't want to hear about it!" Bubba growled, covering his ears before Tux could go off on a tangent about him.

Before any of them could utter another word, or before Tux could make another sarcastic, out-of-place comment, Rainey Banker stepped into the room.

Tux used her appearance to make up for the potentially lost moment. He turned right to the fellow pilot and raised his eyebrows towards her with a big, doofy grin on his face, instantly thinking up the best – yet worst – flirtation phrase he could come up with at that moment.

"He-e-e-e-ey, Banker! Are you a pilot? Because you make me want to... I mean, uh, are you in the air force? Because you are out of this world! Wait, that's for astronauts..." He stood there a moment, trying to shake off the sudden lack of brain waves going on in his apparently empty noggin. Rainey didn't exactly look impressed with him.

"Just ignore Fabio there and sit on down over here." Glenn smiled pleasantly and waved her over to the couch, making room.

Rainey leaned against the lounge's pool table and crossed her arms, turning to watch the doorway and giving none of them an eye. "No thanks."

Glenn paused silently, put slightly backward by her bizarre demeanor. "Somethin' wrong?"

"No," she answered, though the flight leader detected tremors in her voice, "nothing is wrong."

The squadron's only female pilot just leaned there a moment more. When she finally realized that not only Glenn but the room's three other inhabitants were looking at her with equally baffled expressions on their mugs, Rainey sighed exasperatedly. "It has to do with Mr. Gallow, okay?"

Glenn leapt from his seat without missing a beat. "What in hell did that dingbat do now?"

"Nevermind!" she thrust her arms up in the air. "Geez! Just forget it."

"Tell me!" Glenn approached her, already growing frustrated by this whole sudden thing.

"No!" she countered, quickly coming to anger herself. Rainey was a _hell_ of a lot tougher than she may have looked to some of the enlisted men, but she still had emotions much like the rest of them.

The flight leader stared at her, bewildered. "Whaddya mean, 'no'!?"

"It's not even any of your business!" She glared thunderbolts at him.

Clearing his throat a bit to make himself more noticeable, Tux started in himself. "Hold on, Rainey. Glenn's not ticked off with you, he's just trying to tell you in his own sweet way that he's worried. We all know how that old dog Zodo can be, and our fearless leader here just wants to make sure the guy didn't pull anything on you he's not supposed to. You can't blame Glenn for tryin' to figure out what's going on."

The vexed female pilot sighed again, deciding Tux's explanation was satisfactory. "I just ended up having to talk with him a bit, that's all."

"What'd he say?" Glenn instantly wanted to know.

"Look, it," she stammered awkwardly and irritatedly, "it was nothing worth babbling about now, alright? I just said something to him I probably shouldn't have."

Glenn looked almost stunned. Was she irritated with _herself?_ Gallow was supposed to be the one at fault here! What in blue blazes was going on? He instantly set out to find what, another confused look spreading across his face and encompassing it almost completely. "What're you talking about?"

Rainey Banker paused, then hefted herself off the pool table and shuffled towards the lounge's window casually, her eyes locking on a random fighter jet from another squadron taxi onto the runway off in the distance. "I passed by him on the way here. He told me I looked nice today, and I thought he was starting something."

"Starting something?" Glenn blinked, raising an eyebrow, becoming aware of the situation Rainey had gotten herself into.

"I just thought he was, you know, being _wolfy._ Or something." Rainey allowed herself to grin for a moment. "So, to put it nicely, I told him to stick it."

Tux cracked up upon hearing that. So that was it. Glenn closed his eyes agitatedly and leaned against the pool table himself. This was really the last damned thing he needed – More turmoil inside his own squadron, and the fact that Rainey was the cause of some of it this time didn't help things any. Fools like Fel Banon and Zodo Gallow were the usual suspects in this sort of case, and Glenn found it obnoxious that he had the pleasure of actually counting on his other, less-asstastic wingmates to stir up some trouble.

"So what'd he do then?" Bubba asked, unable to quell his own grin at the thought of someone like Rainey Banker telling a guy like Gallow to shove something straight up his tailpipe.

Rainey rested her arms on the window sill, perhaps tired from the day's events. She was obviously more than a little unhappy with them, at that. "Well, he didn't really do anything. If anything, he looked confused, or disappointed. I thought he'd get really mad, but he didn't. He just walked away."

Glenn turned his head towards her, crossing his arms and legs together. The best cure for this situation was to probably just try and let it go, though he couldn't very well count on Gallow doing such a thing. Still, it was something that a fellow just had to put behind them. He knew full well Rainey had no desire to go up to the guy and apologize for what she'd said anyway, so that was out. "Whatever the case, just try and forget it even happened. Hopefully, he will too."

She didn't respond.

Staring at her for only a moment longer, Glenn just shook his head and took hold of a nearby cue stick, starting a game by himself and not bothering to invite the rest of them. He wanted some peace and quiet time to think.

The rest of the room was from then on quiet.

--- --- ---

Water dripped from the hangar's tin roof, beads of the liquid plastering some of the black-hued fighter jets stationed inside. It was still raining outside, and it wouldn't look as though the bad weather would let up anytime soon. Black Hole's military meteorologists had predicted at least two more days of this nonsense, but despite this, work still had to be done, including work for a certain team of aerial combat operatives.

"Are we going up today, sir?" a young though deep voice asked, a slight echo traveling throughout the large hangar.

The man turned around to acknowledge his comrade as he ran a hand through his wheat-colored hair, perhaps to dry and dry it out some. The planes weren't the only victims of the dripping roof. "I believe so. Be ready in case we get the call."

Judgment Seven's expression showed befuddlement. "Really? Would they really have us fly in such conditions?"

"Certainly. They want us to be ready for anything, much like the other nations' air forces." Judgment One tugged at his black bomber jacket. The hangar was cold – Obviously an air duct was bringing in the outside's cold atmosphere. The Black Judgment Squadron's – Actually only Judgment Squadron, as Black Hole liked to put the word 'black' before everything for some odd reason – aircraft colors seemed to only brighten the intensity of the glacial temperature.

Turning towards the black-painted Blue Moon fighter jet his leader was standing by, Judgment Seven folded his arms together, chilly mists exiting his mouth as he spoke. "And when are we supposed to head out to take care of that squadron the Commander seems to loathe so much?"

"Commander Hawke doesn't seem concerned over the squadron one way or another," Judgment One returned, pulling at one of the fighter's missiles to make sure it was tightly locked onto the wing. "It's Commander Lash who despises the squadron. She's still vastly annoyed over the loss of both Boldigh and her little Black Cannon, or so word from the capital says. Commander Hawke only sees the squadron as a nuisance, or the top priority on a structure of such."

"Still, when are we heading out?" Judgment Seven stepped over to the manned Black Hole squadron's flight leader, his eyes scanning the fighter. "He said—"

"I don't give a damn what Commander Hawke said," Judgment One uttered, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "It doesn't matter when we go."

The other pilot stood there, still looking rather perplexed. "But if we left at nighttime—"

"—It would be no different than if we left during daytime. We're more than a match for this squadron no matter what odds are." The Judgment Squadron leader rose an arm up and let it rest on the wing, leaning against it. "Whatever Commander Hawk told you, forget all of it. We're going to do things my way."

Judgment Seven eyed his leader quizzically. "Your way."

"That's correct. You've heard of Sgadd, correct?"

"Sgadd? S-H-O-D?"

"No, S-G-A-D-D." Judgment One's eyes fluttered away from his wingmate and gazed out one of the hangar's few windows, focusing on the cold, dark mists outside created from the poor weather the country was having. "That's our target for our first mission."

Blinking repeatedly in surprise, Judgment Seven did a double-take at the flight leader. "Wait – Sgadd? But that's Eight's hometown—"

"So?" The lead Judge turned his head towards the other pilot, as though challenging him – Or at least asking him if he had any sort of problematic hitch with what they were going to do. "That's irrelevant."

"Still," Judgment Seven uttered uncomfortably, "do you think it's wise to go and attack a simple-enough community that one of our wingmates was born in?"

"Don't put words in my mouth." Judgment One glared at his subordinate, though he really didn't think anything ill of it. "I don't necessarily think it's wise. It's just a good idea, since some of the members of the enemy squadron may be from Sgadd. Since it's close to their base, or where we suspect they are, provided they haven't moved their operations yet since that failed ground attack on it, the town probably has sentimental value as well. They'll be angry over the possible loss, and it wouldn't be a hindrance on us if they were fighting blind with vexation."

Judgment Seven stood there, taken back slightly. "I never would have thought of that."

"That's why I'm in command of this unit and you aren't." The Judgment Squadron flight leader's thin mouth hinted at an ephemeral smile, but it never appeared. The words weren't spawned from arrogance – They were simply the truth, and both of them knew it.

"Anyway," Judgment One continued, "I suppose we'll head out tomorrow. I'll set up a list of specific targets in Sgadd we might want to hit and issue them during briefing in the morning. Do me a favor and go tell maintenance to make ready with the fuel and inspections."

"Yes-sir." The younger Black Hole pilot saluted. "Anything else?"

Judgment One scratched the side of his head, expressionless. "Don't bother telling any of the Commanding Officers about any of this. If you happen by them and they ask of our current plans, tell them. If not, don't. I don't think they'd agree with my strategy."

Again, Judgment Seven nodded, a weary look surfacing on his face. His leader sure pulled some risky moves when it came to dealing with the Commanders. "Yes-sir."

The Judgment Squadron leader waved a hand lightly, informing his comrade he could leave, but just before Judgment Seven was out of the hangar, the older pilot felt another drop of rain on his head and snapped himself back to attention. "Oh! Seven."

The pilot turned around. "Sir?"

"When you're done with that... Suit up."

Judgment Seven sighed.

-----------------

Author Notes:

I apologize for the length it took to get this chapter up. School's started up again, and I'm in the second semester of my bid for a certificate in computer networking & repair. Let me tell you, it's gotten a teensy bit more difficult. They like to pile on homework, that much I've realized. Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you review. They're always appreciated.

And by the way: Keep an eye out for a possible guest appearance by Thunderbolt Squadron in Dr. Bross' fic, "the Death Array." It's coming along great, and it's as good a read as any in the Advance Wars section. Highly recommended.


	5. Meeting of the Majors

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Five – Meeting of the Majors---**

It was after five o'clock in the morning.

Commander Beauregard had woken up all eight of the squadron members hours earlier, rambling on about an urgent mission at hand. Of course, while Glenn and the rest of them had gotten themselves prepared for whatever they had to undertake as quickly as possible, the Thunderbolt flight leader in particular was slightly annoyed that he hadn't gotten much sleep at all – Perhaps two or three hours worth. What annoyed him more, though, was the fact that he and his squadron were presumably going into combat sleepily. Glenn hated flying tired – Sleep deprivation played with one's senses, and in the air, one needed every sense they could get their paws on, especially when combat entered the mix.

The briefing had been overly short, and vague at that. While Beauregard wouldn't go into details, perhaps due to time constraints, all the Thunderbolts really needed to know anyway was that they had to fly over to the relatively distant Dawn Air Force Base and wait for further orders while receiving fuel and maintenance. They'd had missions like this before, so Glenn wasn't all too worried about the lack of mission specifications. The squadron would understand things better in due time.

The trip to Dawn Air Force Base hadn't lasted long either. Each of the Thunderbolts had made consecutive landings on the base's thin runway soon enough, and the lot of them pulled over towards the hangars where maintenance crews made ready with who knew how much gasoline – The fighter jets ate up it up like candy, even without afterburners engaged.

"Greetings, 207th," the control tower had radioed as the fighter jets sat there immobile under the night sky.

"Salutations, Dawn." Glenn had smiled as he unhooked his oxygen mask from his face, watching a slew of workers rush around the sides of his fighter, each lugging along an enormous gasoline hose.

Fifteen minutes later, Glenn and company had received their orders – and not only from Dawn personnel. Commanding Officer Sami herself relayed the command: Take out a Black Hole-held train up north carrying a new weapon of destruction. Fair enough, Glenn thought. They'd handled oh-so-fearsome 'weapons of destruction' before. Too bad the human eyes didn't exactly come equipped with nightvision. Still, the sun was going to be coming up soon, so by the time they got there, they may have been able to see it. Maybe not. Only time would tell.

Just before take-off, Dawn's control tower had radioed one other little tidbit to the squadron. "Hey, Thunderbolts, guess who else is here? Commanding Officer Nell, that's who. Want us to relay any messages to her while you've got the chance?"

Glenn had been half a second from declining, but before he could have uttered a single word, Tux spoke up for him.

"Tell her I love her," the wildman snickered, issuing the proposal for no particular reason other than he liked to make a lasting impression on the Orange Star Commanding Officers, most notably Nell. As luck would have it, the control tower knew exactly who was talking over the radio – They'd probably heard the unfortunately truthful tale of when Tux once tried to serenade the poor Commander.

And then, fifteen minutes into their flight towards where the train ran, another little surprise threatened to astound the team. Commanding Officer Andy was on-board the train, along with another Orange Star operative. That was just great – If their missiles missed the target, they could very well blow one of Orange Star's most important officers to kingdom come and be stripped of their ranks, dishonorably discharged, and who knew what else. Nevermind the fact they'd be thrown in jail for a couple of decades after all that.

Thankfully, when the Thunderbolts had arrived above the scene, it had turned out that Andy and the operative, who Sami identified as "Wolf," had gone and blown the whole train up somehow. Unfortunately, it was still moving, but at least the squadron had been able to get a good visual on it, thanks to the fact it was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Glenn in particular had spoken with the operative for a moment, and informed him to get into some cover as quickly as possible. Hardly allowing a few seconds to pass for the operative and Commanding Officer Andy to actually find that cover, the Thunderbolts had promptly unleashed blazing hell on the train, starting from the rear car and moving up one-by-one until the entire train just went and derailed like it had sprouted wings.

The few moments where Glenn was unsure if Andy and the operative were unharmed had been a bit unnerving, but Commanding Officer Sami soon relayed to the squadron that they were unharmed, if a bit high-strung. That had been good news – Great news, actually. Though Glenn was still having some trouble getting the thought through, he and the squadron had again successfully defused a possibly apocalyptical situation. Oh well, most of the thanks probably went to Andy and the operative anyway, but still, it made him feel good that the mission had gone off without any unnecessary losses.

"I'll be darned," Tux had blathered as the Thunderbolts made a quick circle of the area where whatever was left of the train lay in fiery ruins, "I wonder how Andy and that crazy Wolf ever survived that little onslaught? Shootfire, they must have them a guardian angel blowin' kisses at 'em up there or somethin'."

"It sure looks that way," Glenn had responded, scanning the area from his fighter to see if he could get a visual on Andy and the operative, but he couldn't. Oh well – He'd probably see them sooner or later anyway. "Let's head back to Dawn, 'Bolts."

And there they were now, at Dawn Air Force Base. It was just after five in the morning. Sadly, it looked as though bad weather was moving in towards the base – A nasty group of scattered storms was heading off of Black Hole territory, but at the moment, it looked like it would pass the airbase by and head south, towards Sgadd. Glenn was partially thankful he probably wouldn't have to fly in that weather as he stepped out of the hangar. They'd have to head back to Reagan sooner or later, but the debriefing would take place here, and besides, he just wanted to relax for a bit before they headed out again.

Glenn looked off across the tarmac, hefting his flight helmet and oxygen mask under his shoulder for comfort. He'd had the pleasure of speaking with Sami in person as he'd been landing his fighter, and quickly enough, the topic of meeting the operative had come up. Glenn hadn't necessarily been against the idea, but while he was always happy to meet new people, especially those affiliated with Orange Star's military, he was rather tired.

Still, the squadron seemed all for the idea.

"Is that the Crazy Wolf?" Tux asked, stepping up from behind Glenn out of the hangar, also holding his flight helmet in a hand. "Man, he looks like he's just been through a war."

"He has," Glenn returned, forcing himself to refrain from openly chuckling. It wasn't all too funny anyway, and if he were in the operative's shoes, he wouldn't want some hotshot fighter pilot snickering about his appearance. The operative was really messed, though, with his burned and ripped soldier's uniform, so it was a little hard to not take pity on the guy and find it slightly amusing that he was still standing at the same time.

Rainey and the other Thunderbolts came up to join the two. The blonde pilot gazed out across the tarmac, Sami and the operative both visibly talking to each other since the sun was starting to rise up over the distant mountains. "So are we going to go talk to him?"

"Sure." The Thunderbolt flight leader ran a hand through his short brown hair to make sure it looked at least semi-tidy. It would be rather interesting to see if the guy had gone insane from whatever mission that had torn him up so badly like that. "Just don't do or say anything about his appearance that'll make us look bad, alright? We're on the same team, yes, but we do need to present ourselves in a pleasant-enough fashion."

"Whatever," Tux shrugged, smiling widely as though he perfectly understood what Glenn was saying.

Glenn nodded his head slightly towards where Sami and the operative still stood on the tarmac, and the squadron headed off towards the two fellow Orange Star military folk.

Tux was the first one to arrive on the scene, however greatly Glenn wished to make sure to beat him there first. The slightly wild pilot grabbed the rather stunned-looking operative's hand and shook it far too rapidly for comfort. "Well, well! If it ain't the Crazy Wolf! We need more nutcases like you on the ground – It makes our jobs a whole lot easier."

The operative stood there, looking utterly perplexed by Tuxedo Ral's overly vivid personality. "Huh?"

Nice going, Tux, Glenn thought as he refrained from rolling his eyes. Halfway-insult the guy, why don't you. "Easy, Tux, he's been through a lot. Why don't you go easier on his arm before you break it?"

"Ah, c'mon, Glenn." Tux looked back at the flight leader, smirking, not noticing the extremely bizarre look he was getting from not only the operative but Sami as well. "I'm just thankin' the guy for settin' that train on fire like he did. That way, we didn't have to shoot at the ground like chickens with our heads cut off."

Glenn crossed his arms, giving Tux 'that look,' partially because the guy was still shaking the operative's hand like he was having a seizure or something. The Thunderbolt flight leader honestly felt bad for the operative – The very last thing he needed was Tuxedo Ral swinging him around by the arm like a ragdoll.

"Hey, Tux, you aren't the only one who wants to meet him." Rainey stepped forward amongst the group, frowning slightly, as though to tell the guy to move it or lose it.

Tux seemed to get the idea pretty well since he stepped backwards, coughing slightly, allowing Rainey to step forward to exchange greetings and shake the operative's slightly pained hand. "Yeah, of course, Rainey. It's not everyday we get to go and blow up Black Hole's baby, though. I can't wait to go back and put that on my résumé. And I got to meet the Crazy Wolf, too – It's about time something interesting happened 'round here. Speaking of which, why don't I have a codename?"

Glenn silently wondered why he would need one with a name like Tuxedo Ral, grinning at the thought.

"You might get one when you do something relevant," the female pilot snickered, causing Tux to put his hands on his hips and argue obnoxiously with her over that opinion.

Glenn wasn't really paying attention, and it didn't look like the operative was, either. By now, the soldier's eyes had moved away from Rainey Banker and the overly noisy pilot she was arguing good-naturedly with. If Glenn didn't know better, he'd estimate that the operative was looking over towards the hangar. Unfortunately, the lead Thunderbolt also suspected he knew why, even as he slowly looked over his left shoulder to spy what the operative was gazing at.

Oh hell, Glenn thought.

Fel Banon and Zodo Gallow hadn't bothered to come with the rest of the group to present themselves to Sami and the operative. Fel was pacing around, his arms folded over his chest, periodically glancing at the group as though to ask, 'are you done yet?' The expression on his face clearly showed impatience.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Gallow was leaning against the hangar, one leg crossed over the other with a toothpick hanging from his mouth. He was outright ignoring the group, not paying a breeze of attention to whatever was going on with his companions, Sami, and the operative.

Glenn sighed quietly, shadowing his embarrassment over their repulsive behavior well, and he turned back to the operative. "Those two're Zodo Gallow, and Fel Banon."

The operative smirked in response, as though he knew how people like Gallow and Banon could be, but then, his eyes suddenly wandered back over to the two of them a second time. It confused Glenn a small bit – Just enough to make him look back over his shoulder once again.

Gallow had by now hefted himself off the hangar's side and was striding over towards Dawn's main building. Banon stood there a moment longer, watching the Blue Mooner leave the scene, and as if to say, 'if he's going inside, so am I,' headed off after the pilot.

This time, Glenn was able to keep from sighing. Now he was annoyed.

More introductions followed. They moved swiftly enough, with the obligatory good-natured jibe towards one another, this one mostly being about that old hunk of junk truck Bubba got by dragging it out of a pile of mud somewhere, but after a moment, Glenn was engaged in quick conversation with the operative.

"Hey, Gordon," the soldier started quietly, stepping closer to Glenn, "What was it like when you were well-known? I remember – You were on the television."

The question caught Glenn a little off-guard. It had been a while since he'd made a few television appearances against his will, and even then, he'd never exactly been famous. Those damned news agencies just liked to make a big deal out of things. The flight leader covered his slight confusion well enough, though, and tilted his head backwards with a bit of a chuckle to help hide it. "I got tons of calls from news stations. I got sick of watching TV after a while, because of it."

The operative seemed to understand, detectable from a smile spreading across his rather tired face. "Yeah?"

"Until I got back in the air," Glenn continued, "I just felt miserable, come to think of it. I don't recommend retiring after a situation like you and I were in."

"How's that?" the operative asked, successfully ignoring the argument Bubba and Tux were engaged in over what model year the truck was. Bubba claimed it was a ten-year-old model; Tux argued it must have been older than his ancestors.

"Well, you should just stick with what you're best at – No matter what. That's what I realized when I left Green Earth."

Unfortunately, before the conversation could progress further, a fair female voice interrupted the lot of them. It didn't belong to Rainey or Sami. "It's soldiers like you that make Orange Star the best."

Glenn turned around, expecting to see his mother or something from the woman's way with words – But it was Commanding Officer Nell, a pleasant smile on her attractive face. Immediately he made sure to salute her respectively, as did the rest of the squadron, along with Sami and the operative.

"If you don't mind, Lieutenant Gordon," Nell stated, "I'd like to meet with your squadron later. I need to talk to our friend Wolf here a bit."

"Yes, ma'am." Glenn returned the smile she gave him and gave a nod to his companions. Then he turned to the operative. "Nice meeting you, soldier."

"You too, flyer." The operative gave him a worn-out grin.

With that, the Thunderbolts headed off towards Dawn's main building. Tux mentioned something about how Nell gave him a rather angry look as she'd been walking towards the group, but Glenn wasn't paying attention. As they walked away from Nell and the other two, the Thunderbolt flight leader could feel his irritation rising rapidly with every step he took. Of all the stupid, most ridiculous nonsense there ever was, this had to be the peak of it all. Stupid Banon and stupider Gallow.

The squadron stepped through the wide, swinging glass doors of Dawn's command center. Glenn didn't bother addressing a single soul – He was making tracks for a particular place. Dawn's command building wasn't as large as Reagan's was, so he'd find what he was looking for in due time. The rest of the Thunderbolts only followed along silently, each one of them slowly getting the realization that Glenn was, to put it very mildly, agitated.

Zodo Gallow and Fel Banon stood in Dawn's break room. At the moment, Fel was leaning against the wall, generally looking impatient as always, as though he wanted to get away from this airbase as soon as possible and get back home – back to Reagan. Gallow was resting against a table, sipping a cup of coffee he'd just made with a nearby machine of such nature.

It wasn't long until the rest of Thunderbolt Squadron filed into the room. Tux flung himself right into an empty chair, the seat making a noisy "POOMF" sound, and he propped both feet up onto the table Zodo was leaning on while the rest of the squadron settled themselves down for a bit of relaxation. Most of them did their lazying far away from Gallow and Banon, though, as though predicting the scene that was about to unfold.

Glenn was the last to enter the room. He strode purposefully over to the coffee table and flung his oxygen helmet right down on it, the booming thud it made grabbing everyone's attention and making anyone who was even beginning to try and converse shut up right quick.

"Uh-oh," Tux cooed from the chair.

Glenn turned right towards Gallow, less than two feet from him. "I'd like you to know that in the future, the next time our squadron is presented to someone in person, whether they are of military rank or not, I would greatly appreciate it if you would get your head out of your egomaniacal ass for two seconds and refrain from discrediting the squadron as a whole like you just did out there."

Raising his head slightly, Gallow crossed his arms carefully as to not spill his coffee, his dark eyes moving over towards his flight leader. "I didn't ask to join this unit. Is your squadron's dignity supposed to mean anything to me?"

"As long as you're a member of the squadron, it damn well better." Glenn glared thunderbolts at the man. "You may have been in Kailaff Boldigh's ratty unit, but those days are long gone."

"I'm just a simple man trying to make my way in the world," Gallow responded quietly. "It's not like I go and bother requesting what team I'm to be a part of. Whether or not I was in Boldigh's squadron is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant – Hell!" Glenn thrust his arms out to each side. "Boldigh and his squadron were only a bunch of traitors, that's all."

The muscles in Zodo Gallow's battle-scarred visage clearly tightened and his eyes widened by just a hair. Glenn suddenly found the man to appear rather dangerous-looking in this aspect, but he didn't get a response at first. Perhaps that hadn't been the wisest thing to say – After all, Gallow seemed fairly proud of his Blue Moon heritage, and besides, he'd mentioned sometime before that he hadn't had much of a choice when he'd gone along with Boldigh to Black Hole's side.

"What did you just call me?" Gallow uttered in a tone that made the room's chilly temperature seem tropical in comparison, his already deep voice so low and quiet that Glenn could barely understand what the man said.

The flight leader couldn't find the right words to answer with.

Gallow hefted himself off the table, turning his body fully towards Glenn. Gallow wasn't necessarily large, but he was perhaps a little bigger than Glenn, so the Lieutenant couldn't help but feel himself become more intimidated with every tick of the clock.

A tense few seconds passed. Before a fight could break out all over the room, Tux threw himself out of his chair and raced up between the two, with assistance from a nearby Achmed, who might not have been able to understand what was being said but certainly knew when fists were about to fly. Tux raced right in-between the two prospective boxers. "Whoa, hold it, hold it!"

Rainey was there just as quickly. "Yeah, geez, hold on a second!"

The three of them were the only things keeping Gallow and Glenn separated. Rainey turned her gaze on the angrier of the two. "Zodo, cool down. Glenn didn't mean that. Did you, Glenn?"

She hesitated a moment, then realized she wasn't getting an answer. The blonde pilot thrust her head in the flight leader's direction and stared at him bewilderedly, suddenly growing very frustrated with him. If he weren't careful, he'd have a hand's palm being applied to his face at a speed similar to what their jets moved at. "Glenn, for God's sake, tell him you didn't mean that!"

This time, Glenn chose not to answer. He just shifted his weight to the side and leaned his body against the table while crossing his arms.

Gallow stood there a few second longer, his gruesome stare intensifying murderously. And then, without warning, he turned and left the room, not uttering a single word to anyone before leaving. Rainey opened her arms to each side, as though asking Glenn what on Wars World was the deal here. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Glenn, jeez, what're you doin'?" Tux looked equally perplexed. "I mean, God almighty. You're the one always goin' on about how we have to be a team and everything!"

"It's not like his treachery is a secret or anything," Glenn started, trying to shake off the obvious embarrassment he felt from being harassed by his own squadron like this. It didn't work.

The rest of the squadron just shook their heads and continued to look less than impressed with their flight leader's actions. Glenn's brow furrowed as he rolled his eyes. "Oh, give me a break."

"Did it ever occur to you," Rainey said to him, though she clearly contained the depths of her irritation, "that maybe if you gave him a chance and treated him with the respect everyone else is granting him, he'd fit right on in with the rest of us? Have you already forgotten about what you said yesterday – About getting Zodo and Fel to come back to this world and get their heads out of the clouds? Way to eat your own words, Glenn."

Fel Banon looked up at the mention of his name, and if he hadn't looked pleased with Gordon before, that sure was the case now.

Glenn's hazel eyes centered on the squadron's resident female pilot. "Don't tell me you're siding with either of them."

"Maybe I'm just trying to remind us that we're a team."

And she left without another word. Glenn stared after her, only now starting to take her words to heart, but before he could follow out after her, the rest of the squadron emptied out of the area. Achmed was the last to leave, and he could only shake his head at Glenn before exiting. After a few moments, only Glenn and Fel stood in Dawn's break room. Sighing, the flight leader picked up Gallow's lonesome coffee cup and poured out whatever was left of it in a nearby sink, then tossed it in a trash can while going over what had just transpired in his mind.

Then he paused briefly.

Slowly turning his head over his shoulder, Glenn spied Fel Banon staring at him. The man was still leaning against the wall, his head downwards as he rested against it, arms and legs crossed. Fel Banon didn't intimidate Glenn as much as he'd used to, but the flight leader still found the large-built man both annoying and a bit unnerving.

"And just what are _you_ gawking at?" Glenn finally asked in what wasn't his most pleasant tone.

Fel hesitated before answering. "Do you consider yourself to be a good leader, Glenn?"

The response he got was equally offensive. "What do you care?"

"When I was in command of Heartbreak Squadron," Fel started, whether Glenn was interested in hearing about his tales or not, which he clearly wasn't, "I kept everyone in line. They literally ate from the palm of my hand. I knew how to keep things going, and I did it well. We never had a single action even considered against us by command."

"Heartbreak Squadron consisted of a bunch of halfwit mental defectives, only one of them left and joined Thunderbolt Squadron." Glenn's expression shifted into a loathing smirk. "Too bad you were never a good leader in the first place. I guess the times where the Heartbreakers harassed the other Reagan squadrons has slipped your mind."

"I had more skill in holding the reins of a squadron than you ever will, Gordon." Fel Banon gave his superior a nefarious glare full of discontentment. "I didn't have the Heartbreakers running around, arguing with each other every ten minutes. This squadron is out of control, and it's all your fault."

"How the hell is it my fault?"

Fel's vile demeanor didn't change at all. "Look at you and your earlier words. Calling Gallow a traitor? Only a rookie commander would say something so utterly dumb. I would never have—"

"Whatever, Banon," Glenn huffed irritatedly, turning back around to make himself a cup of coffee.

"You don't even listen to your wingmates. Banker tried to make you understand, but even she failed."

Glenn whirled around, giving Fel a detestable frown. "What the hell ever. Step off your goddamn high horse, Banon. You were the most pathetic excuse for a leader in Orange Star's military history. Even Tristan or _Achmed_ would make better commanders than a hulking rodent like you. You only cared about your satisfying your ego, and being in charge of a squadron didn't seem to relish it, so you decided to start throwing your weight around more than you should have. You had those ass paddles in Heartbreak Squadron go about getting themselves in trouble, but none of you ever cared. You didn't give a damn if you made the air force look bad. That's why you got thrown into my squadron."

Fel Banon clearly struggled to contain his infuriation with Gordon. By now, his eyes were wide with rage and, if Glenn didn't know any better, he looked about ready to grab the flight leader and swing him around the room, but he didn't. "You conceited bastard."

He didn't get a response. Glenn only went about making his beverage, no longer paying attention to Fel and his frustration.

Pushing himself off the wall, Fel stepped across the room, passing the coffee table as he headed for the door. Just before he fully exited the room, though, he stopped and turned to Glenn.

"A change in leadership is in order," he said quietly. Then he left.

Glenn stood there, finishing up his work with the drink, silently listening to Fel Banon's steps as the man left the room and walked off down the hall. Finally, when he could no longer hear them, the flight leader turned around and gazed out the door, resting his weight on the table, thinking about what the very annoyed pilot had just muttered coldly.

A change in leadership...?

What did Fel Banon mean?

An air raid siren sounded off across the base. Glenn rested only a moment longer, his mind still concentrating on what the pilot had said – No, on what Fel Banon had threatened.

Then he lifted himself off the table and hurried out of the room.

-----------------

Author Notes:

This was the tie-in with "the Death Array," in case anyone noticed. It was a very pleasurable experience, having my characters appear in another person's story. I just don't think I'd like to do it again for a long time, if ever. A lot of work actually goes into guest appearances WHILE you're writing a story involving them, provided you actually care about continuity. Still, it was worth it.

Off-topic: There's a fellow I know in college who knows enough folks at the nearby air base to get me a ride-along in an A-10. Yes, an actual A-10 Thunderbolt (hah) II, better known as the "Warthog." I'm considering taking him up on the offer, since it would admittedly give me a better understanding of what pilots like Glenn and the Thunderbolts go through. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to take the ride-along until this summer thanks to that Home Security alert level of whatever, but still, it's cool. Anyway, thanks for reading this one, and I hope you review.


	6. Storming Skies

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Six – Storming Skies---**

"All wings, report status."

"Seven here: Part of the mall is done for, One. I'm coming back around for a few more hits on it – Switching to freefall bombs."

"Good work, Seven. Keep at it until our friends arrive. Three, Four, have you taken care of the law facilities yet?"

"A couple of pig stations are up in flames, One, but I've still got a few more to deal with. Four's handlin' the fire stations."

"Copy that – Two, Five, how about the hospitals?"

"Sgadd General's been checked into the morgue, but we're still taking care of the others. This weather's making' things kind of hard on us, but we'll be alright."

"Fine. Eight, Six, come with me. We'll make a few circles of the town, and when the enemy squadron shows up, we'll be the first to greet them. Arm weapon mechanisms, and keep an eye on your radars 'til then."

"Yes-sir."

"Remember, upon mission completion, do NOT converse with the Commanders. I will relay the mission information to Commander Hawke myself."

"Do you think Hawke or one of the other Commanders will reward us when we complete the mission, One?"

"I think you should be more concerned about how he would reward us if we didn't, Three."

"Yes-sir."

--- --- ---

The rain pounded hard against the fighter jet's canopy as it raced along over the lands at just over mach one, the atmosphere behind it waving silkily from its jet wash. A foggy brown haze encased the area all around Glenn's aircraft, despite how the sun should have come up by now. Whatever poor weather that had been terrorizing Black Hole's territory had now moved south, right into Orange Star property – And Thunderbolt Squadron was right in the middle of it.

Everywhere Glenn looked as he sped along towards the sieged town of Sgadd, he couldn't see an inch of the sky's friendly blue hues. Only the powerful rain that dropped from the thick cumulous clouds above Orange Star. "What a mess."

"No kiddin'," Tux grumbled from his fighter, positioned not far from Glenn's left wing. It was a well-known fact that Tuxedo Ral loathed weather like this, what with the bizarre though likely truthful rumors that he'd been hit by lightning a couple of times and all. Glenn had to agree with him, but only since he was flying right in the midst of it.

The severe weather only reminded Glenn of the situation he and his squadron were in with themselves. The tight bond binding them together was threatening to snap in two, and there was no visible way that Glenn could see to keep things in place. Nor did Fel Banon's and Zodo Gallow's detestable behavior help anything. Just the thought of those two sent nerves popping in Glenn's neck, however hard he tried to ignore their annoying presence in his mind.

Sighing to himself, Glenn shook his head a bit to get such ridiculous thoughts out of his mind. He had to concentrate on what they were doing. An unknown presence in the air had appeared on Dawn's radar, a presence headed directly towards Sgadd. Since Orange Star's air squadrons all had the same markup on allied radar systems, it had been easily determined that the presence belonged to Black Hole forces, or perhaps a rogue squadron from one of the other nations. Not likely, though – They were busy with Black Hole themselves, after all, and needed all the help they could get.

Whatever the presence consisted of, though, the 207th was ready to find out what exactly it was and throw them the hell off of Orange Star territory.

There were no airbases in close proximity of Sgadd, besides Reagan. It confused Glenn a bit – Why would a Black Hole air unit be headed towards a simple town rather than an enemy air force base? It didn't quite make sense to him. And Sgadd really was a simple community. There were little resources that would be of much use to Black Hole nearby, and the town was almost a dump anyway, but it was Bubba's hometown, so Glenn made sure not to say such a thing out loud. Still, Sgadd's utter uselessness in terms of capability made things all that much more perplexing to Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader.

This only combined with the earlier confusion he'd felt, when Fel Banon had openly threatened him by saying a change in squadron leadership was required. Alright, so it hadn't necessarily been an open threat, but still, Glenn suspected he knew of the meaning behind it, and took it as such. At the same time, he had no idea what Fel had been talking about. It was all so damned mysterious that Glenn wanted to scream. Why couldn't he have the answers?

Oh well, he figured. He'd find out in due time – At least about one of the mysteries. The squadron was now less than a dozen miles from Sgadd's city limits.

The rain steadily became harder. Even though Glenn normally shouldn't have felt it pound against his faster self, since he was in such a large aircraft and was moving who knew how quickly through the atmosphere, he could still feel a slight reverberation from its constant impact. It only made him more nervous about the moment and the situation he was in.

Why did he have such a bad feeling about all of this? Sgadd, Fel Banon, everything. It was so bizarre. And none of the Thunderbolts had gotten much sleep, at that. That could turn out to be a real problem, depending on the situation they got in.

But before Glenn could start pondering everything all over again, his eyes caught sight of something from under the flight helmet and oxygen mask he wore. By now, the squadron had come across Sgadd's city limits, and were officially in the town, but something was wrong. Very wrong.

Fire? Smoke?

Glenn's eyes widened at the sight of the destruction at various parts of the town, and his heart immediately sank into his stomach.

"Oh," he heard Bubba say, "oh no..."

--- --- ---

"They're here! Tally ho on the bogeys! There's eight of them – A full squadron! Repeat, I have visual confirmation on eight enemy Orange Star fighters!"

"Where are they!? What sector!?"

"They've just passed the northern city boundaries! Check your radars!"

"Is it the squadron with the lightning bolt insignias?"

"I can't tell from here – I'd need a closer look!"

"All Judgment Squadron wing members, you are cleared to engage. Attack at your discretion."

"Yes-sir! Engaging!"

--- --- ---

Glenn stared at the fires raging in what appeared to be Sgadd's main shopping mall. More infernos roared across the town, although homes and smaller commercial districts seemed relatively untouched. It only helped to confuse Glenn more, but now he was a little more on the edge. "What in the world happened?"

"Could there be an invasion of the town occurring?" Tristan's eyes consumed as much of the terror as the flight leader's did. "But why?"

Glenn forced his eyes to narrow and continue concentrating on what he was doing. "I don't know, but whoever's responsible for this—"

"Bandits on radar!" Rainey barely kept herself from screaming the words. "Bandits on radar! Eight in different sectors, three of which headed for our position!"

Inside his plane, Bubba's gloved hand tightened on his yoke, grimacing and gritting his teeth at the same time. "Did they do this?"

"Cool down, Bub'," Glenn warned his friend. "Just cool down. Let's take care of this mess before our Black Hole buddies up here make things any worse. You're all cleared to engage at will, but the odds are even, so don't—"

Glenn was interrupted a second time, this time by the sight of three aircraft heading straight for them. The enemy bandits didn't change position even in the mach one-plus game of chicken, and Glenn went bug-eyed. Black Hole's artificial fighters had never performed such a ridiculously brave and possibly idiotic maneuver. "The hell're they doin'!?"

Its pilot shoving the control stick hard to port and forward purely out of instinct, Glenn's fighter roared onto its belly while taking a ground-based direction as the enemy planes blew past him. The wash from their passing slammed against his own fighter and nearly threatened to slap its direction off from where he wanted to take it, but as the other planes passed by, Glenn's eyes again spotted something extremely abnormal.

He did a double-take, and the flight leader threw himself around in the seat, straining to get a better visual identification on what in blue blazes had just raced past him even as he continued along at mach one. "What the HELL!?"

It was an Orange Star fighter – No, three of them, but instead of the normal orange paint scheme, each of the jet fighters were painted a demonic black color all around. The enemy doppleganging fighters were busy stringing themselves out, but already they threatened to jump back onto the Thunderbolts' sixes.

"Glenn, did you see that!?" Tux yelled into his radio, his eyes about twice as wide as Glenn's. "What in hell is going on!?"

Even Fel Banon was struck dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events. "Three of them – Three Orange Star fighters with Black Hole schemes? But how?"

Glenn had to think fast. They were Orange Star fighter jets, yes, but their black hues shattered all sense of rationality. At the same time, there was really only one possible reason for what was going on here, but the flight leader knew he didn't have time to worry about that. In the end of it all, there was only one thing to do. The danger was just too great. Before he could bother hesitating for another second, Glenn hurriedly issued out the order. "Orange Star planes or no Orange Star planes, they're wearin' black! Splash all hostile aircraft immediately!"

The eight Thunderbolt fighters spread apart from each other immediately, each of them targeting a general aircraft on radar. Glenn personally decided to handle the three enemy doppelgangers that he'd just laid eyes on, and he hauled back on the stick to break out of the dive he was in.

Unfortunately, the three bandits had broken apart from themselves as well, and were at the moment wheeling around, shooting right back towards the Thunderbolts – One at Glenn in particular.

Alright, dogmeat, Glenn thought, let's see you pull that crap a second time.

Roaring right at the aircraft at a combined speed of sixteen-hundred miles an hour, Glenn hurriedly armed the missile lock-on sequence. Within seconds, the tell-tale monitor in front of him successfully grabbed ahold of the enemy Orange Star fighter, and without hesitating, the pilot's index finger gripped the ominous red trigger on his control stick. Not wasting a second as a lone missile spewed from his aircraft in a bright blaze of glory, the flight leader threw his aircraft to the side to keep from outright plowing into the bandit.

Spinning around, he could feel the black Orange Star fighter blow past with the rush of air against his plane, but when Glenn struggled to turn his head to see if he'd done any damage, all he saw was a perfectly unharmed black fighter jet attempting to get around on his six o'clock. That had done a helluvalot of good, Glenn sarcastically figured.

"Glenn, he's comin' around on you!"

Glenn was already taking heed of Tristan's warning. He guided the control stick over to starboard while braking the plane hard to simply try and catch the bandit's back before the bandit caught his. The enemy fighter was already completing its turn, though, and threatened to get onto Glenn's six within seconds.

His gaze tightening, the Thunderbolt leader twisted the stick so hard, his craft pointed right at the fighter as he sped along now, but then he suddenly shoved the plane into a death dive. The sudden and vicious amount of gravitational forces threatened to knock him blind for a moment, but Glenn was able to keep the aircraft at just enough of a level to keep himself from losing consciousness.

The enemy fighter kicked onto its wing and skillfully twisted downwards, chasing after Glenn at an equally lethal speed..

Ah, hell, the flight leader thought. These guys were tenacious, that much was obvious. Glenn ratcheted the throttle up to full, increasing his already breakneck speed. Sgadd closed ever nearer, in the pilot's view.

Finally, after a terrifying few seconds, Glenn hauled back on the yoke, and at five hundred feet, leveled out. It perhaps was an even more frightening sensation than dropping to the dirt like he'd just done, but Glenn ignored the feeling as best he could. He couldn't afford to be scared right now.

He sped back upwards, but before he could bother figuring out where the enemy fighter had gone, he saw a set of ever-familiar yellow streaks shooting past his fighter. Gunfire – And lots of it. "Damn!"

The Thunderbolt flight leader forced the plane higher into the rain as quickly as it would move while traveling upwards, and after a moment, the spray of bullets ceased. Glenn corkscrewed the aircraft around to make himself out to be a more wiry target in case more gunfire came his way from the pursuing bandit, but still nothing occurred. For a moment, he wondered if he'd successfully evaded the bogey.

He turned his head again this try and see where the bandit was, but his eyes instead locked onto a fellow Thunderbolt being raggedly chased by one of the other enemy fighters. "Shoot – Tristan, turn and burn! Move!"

"I'm tryin', Glenn!" Tristan swung his fighter around, but that didn't keep the black Orange Star fighter from breaking off the pursuit. "These guys are about as easy to lose as the moon."

"No kiddin'," the flight leader returned, slowly beginning to realize he was breaking out in a cold sweat.

He could feel the plane start to stall from the way he was moving upwards, and Glenn forced himself to loop the aircraft around. More gunfire raced past the fighter, prompting him to push it right back into a spin like before. Soon enough, he was again headed downwards, and as he looked upwards in the cockpit to see where his pursuer was, he spied the black-painted Orange Star fighter lost amongst itself.

Finally, Glenn thought.

But then, his eyes moved from the bandit back towards Tristan's fighter. The poor kid was still being dogged endlessly by one of the bandits, and whatever the young pilot did, it just wasn't enough. Glenn pushed his plane hard towards the two aircraft. "Hold on, Royal!"

"You're not gonna believe this, Glenn," he suddenly heard Rainey say into the radio. "I'm counting enemy Blue Moon, Green Earth, and Yellow Comet fighters. All painted black. That makes eight of them!"

"What!?" Glenn barely kept himself from losing it.

"I'm hit! I'm hit!"

It was Tristan again. Glenn could clearly see the pilot's fighter disintegrating piece by piece as the bandit spewed gunfire in its path tenaciously. The Thunderbolt still seemed under control, despite a rapidly increasing fire in its left wing and fuselage. Unfortunately, the bandit was still firing, and eventually, an explosion rocked the Orange Star fighter, the bright fumes lighting up the sky even in the nasty weather occurring over Sgadd. "Mayday, mayday!"

"Damn it!" Glenn hadn't gotten there in time, but now he sent bullets spraying at the bandit to simply get him away from Tristan's craft and keep him from going and blowing the whole damned thing up. "Are you alright!?"

"I'm alright, I'm alright! She's goin' down!" That much was clear – Half of Tristan's fighter was gone, after all. "I can't straighten out – Ejecting!"

The Orange Star fighter's canopy popped out from the rest of the plane and spun into the air as the pilot pulled the ejection handle. In a heartbeat, the pilot seat shot out of the doomed craft, and within seconds, Glenn spied Tristan's parachute opening without trouble. The aircraft itself continued on in its descent and eventually crashed into the dirt just outside of Sgadd. The Thunderbolt flight leader sighed slightly in relief, but then started back on the task at hand as the realization entered his mind that they weren't out of this yet – Not by a long shot.

He was still cleanly on the bandit who had shot Tristan down, and Glenn continued to let loose a barrage of gunfire at the enemy copycat. The black-painted Orange Star fighter drifted to the left, evading the bullets with ease, then sped upwards in a roll that took it past Glenn's line of sight. The Thunderbolt leader pulled back on his stick, being thrown downwards in his seat as he did so, to try and catch the bandit again as it threatened to escape.

Flipping a switch on his yoke, Glenn adjusted the armed weapons over to missiles and initiated the lock-on sequence. On the heads-up display just before his head, the familiar red square slipped around the monitor as it tried to grab ahold of the bandit, accompanied by the ever-annoying beeping sound it made. By now, the bandit was looping around and pointing itself downwards just as Glenn had done earlier, but that wouldn't matter – The beeping became constant as the square caught the bandit.

His finger gripped the trigger, and one of the fighter's missiles raced out into the night. Strangely enough, the Orange Star fighter didn't seem to bother evading, though, confusing Glenn a great deal.

Suddenly, he could see the aircraft spin around to its other side, its afterburners engaging as it pulled back towards Glenn. The missile went flying right past it.

Glenn grumbled under his breath, but then suddenly realized the immense mistake he'd made. "No, no, no!"

The missile continued down towards Wars World, a high-pitched scream accompanying its trails. It went careening directly into a street and detonated in an enormous, fiery blaze, easily taking out numerous vehicles and lightpoles. Glenn threw his head forward in irritation, cursing his own bloody stupidity for doing such a reckless thing. "DAMN!"

"Glenn, bandit on your tail!" Tux's comlink scratchily relayed the warning. "I'm comin' in!"

Glenn didn't have time to continue cursing himself. He ratcheted the throttle down and pulled back on the stick so hard he threatened to go and snap it off. "Where is he, Tux?"

"He's still on you," the other pilot commented, guiding his own control stick carefully to bring himself around on the bandit. "Bring it around so I can get'im."

Obeying, the lead Thunderbolt broke hard to port as he shot skywards, dodging the path of a pair of bandits pursued by Achmed and Rainey. A half-second later, the bandit pursuing him followed suit, but now that Glenn was out of Tux's line of sight, the normally wild pilot could let loose a barrage of gunfire in the enemy Orange Star fighter's direction. Although no rounds made impact, the yellow streaks flew forth and terrorized the bandit in all directions, prompting the enemy pilot to break off their pursuit of Glenn Gordon. "He's outta there, Glenn!"

"Thanks, Tux. Cover me – Let's give the others a hand."

The two Thunderbolt Squadron wing members raced back towards where the other jets waged war, each of them locked in a vicious fight with each other. With the loss of Tristan, the odds were slightly against the Thunderbolts, but Glenn didn't let that get to him. He knew they all had the determination necessary to overcome any odds – Even Fel Banon or Zodo Gallow were a part of this fact, or so he felt. At least, they'd better have been, or they were pretty screwed.

A bandit streaked past Glenn's frontal vision, racing towards the storming clouds at six hundred miles an hour. "Let's take this one, Tux! Stay with me!"

"Roger wilco," Tux coolly replied, keeping his aircraft level with Glenn's as the two of them kicked over in pursuit of the bandit.

Glenn identified the aircraft as a Blue Moon fighter. It had been a while since he'd been in combat against one of these. The standard Blue Moon jet fighters were a bit smaller than their Orange Star counterparts, but that didn't make them any less lethal or wily. If anything, they were harder to fight against than the seemingly more-advanced Orange Star aerial gladiators. Glenn grumbled to himself, unconsciously wondering why they had to be in such a situation as this one. "I'm going for a missile-lock."

The heads-up display in front of him started once again to try and catch hold of the enemy bandit, but with the slick movements it was making, it wasn't so easy for Glenn to meet his mark. On more than one occasion in the tense seconds that followed, he nearly lost the bogey. "Tux, send some gunfire his way so he jukes to the right, and I'll make him eat so much lead, he—"

A hail of bullets sprayed up the three aircraft's area, all of them barely missing not only Glenn and Tux but the bandit by mere feet.

"Boggs, cease-fire! Cease-fire!" the lead Thunderbolt heard Gallow yell.

Glenn threw his head towards where the gunfire has come from. "Bubba, look out!"

Tracer rounds blazed up past them. Another bandit careened directly past the three speeding aircraft, but Bubba Boggs' plane shot right in between Glenn and Tux's bogey and their own fighters as one that had been pursuing him checked out and hightailed it away from the swarm. Glenn could clearly see Bubba literally slam into the bandit's jet wash, but he also caught sight of the tracers catching their target, and the plane seemed to almost get smacked by a giant hand, being flipped into the distance. "My wing's hit! Taken damage!"

"Ratchet the throttle down!" Glenn warned, trying to keep one eye on the bandit he pursued and the other on Bubba's flailing fighter. "Get'er under control!"

"I can't, damn it!" Bubba's plane continued to twist wildly, far too rapidly for the pilot to regain control so simply. It spun down away from where the rest of the dogfighters exchanged blows. "It's no use, I can't control it! It's gotten away from me!"

Now both of Glenn's eyes locked onto not only Bubba, but a black-hued Green Earth fighter creeping up behind the wildly-spinning aircraft. By now, the bandit Glenn had been pursuing was racing up and away from the two Thunderbolts. "Bubba! There's a bogey coming up on your six! Get the plane UNDER CONTROL!"

"Glenn!" Tux yelled. "Bandit coming around on us!"

Glenn cursed out loud. "Bubba, get the hell out of there NOW!"

"My systems are dying! Controls are unresponsive!" Bubba's plane continued to spin out of control as the enemy Green Earth fighter closed in on him.

Tux kept on. "He's comin' around, Glenn, he's comin' around, he's gonna get a lock on us! Let's go!"

"Come ON, Bubba! Pull the ejection handle!"

"I—can't—reach it!"

"You have to! Come on!"

"_GLENN!_" Tuxedo screamed, his voice louder and quicker than even Gordon's now, "WE GOTTA GO RIGHT NOW!! _LET'S GO, LET'S GO!!_"

"HURRY, BUBBA, DO IT NOW! COME ON!"

"I CAN'T--! I CAN'T DO IT!! _I--!!_"

Gunfire streaked past Glenn. "_BUBBA, EJECT!_"

As though lighting a bright fuse, a lone missile screamed out from under the Green Earth fighter's wing towards Bubba's doomed fighter. It raced on at a scarily-faster speed than what any of the planes traveled at, and after a few seconds, it plowed right into Bubba's left wing. Part of the plane uselessly crumbled as it immediately began to descend, all the while spinning more violently than ever. Fire blossomed at the fighter's fuselage, effortlessly disintegrating the latter part of the craft. Not a second later, mini explosions rocked the fighter's underside as they traveled up towards the front of the plane, and the entire plane erupted in a colossal blast of bright red-orange.

"_GODDAMN IT!_" Glenn threw his aircraft out of open range to try and escape from the bandit behind him, if temporarily, and slammed his fist down onto his thigh – The only place he could think of where he wouldn't accidentally hit some random button. Tears welled within his eyes and obscured his vision, but he didn't even notice them. "_DAMN IT ALL!!!_"

He shoved the yoke hard to the side, sending himself down towards Bubba's killer. The Green Earth fighter was already drifting skywards into the hard rain, but before long, Glenn spat gunfire at it without bothering to aim precisely, not only because he was furious but because they didn't have time to be so precise. It was now six to eight.

The rounds sprayed across the enemy fighter, some of them ripping at its wing, but it continued on as though nothing had happened. It still flew, too, and that was unsatisfactory to Glenn. He kept on with the bullet-spitting, sinking his fangs deep into his prey, and this time, he met his mark. An ominous mist sprayed from the enemy bandit's fuselage, telling Glenn he'd at least hit something vital; hopefully the Green Earther's fuel tank.

"He's firing, he's firing!" Tux relayed the alert as quick as he could. Not that it was really needed – The gunfire from the bandit still behind the two of them was as close to Glenn's aircraft as it was to his wingman's.

"Break hard to port, Tux!" Glenn shot off to starboard to try and befuddle the bandit a bit. But as he started to come back around, he got another message he didn't want to hear.

"He came with me! I'll get away from this cat somehow." Glenn could clearly hear Tux engage his afterburners even so far away from him now.

Continuing his turn, the lead Thunderbolt strained to look towards where Tuxedo and the bandit had raced off to. "I lost you, Tux!"

There was a brief pause over the radio, sending a chill down Glenn's spine while it lasted. He no longer had a visual on Tux, but he could sure see everyone else and the trouble they were in. This was getting hellish, and Glenn found himself growing extremely unnerved by the whole thing.

"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! I've taken damage – System failure!"

Glenn spun his head wildly to the side, nearly gasping until his lungs combusted. "Tux!"

"She's goin' down, damn it! That was a rookie mistake." The horrifying sound of a steadily diving plane filled the background as Tuxedo Ral growled into his comlink. "I can't keep it going! Ejecting!"

Just as Tristan had done only a minute before, Tux's canopy tore off from the rest of the fighter and the aircraft's only seat popped right out of it soon afterwards. The parachute engaged, allowing the pilot a fairly easy ride to the ground, so long as Tux didn't get smacked around by a traveling plane or two. Glenn again sighed with relief, but immediately realized what he had to do.

Checking around to see if there were a bandit trying to keep him from escaping first-hand, Glenn twisted the yoke towards Sgadd's city limits and ratcheted the throttle up to full. "All remaining Thunderbolt Squadron flight members, disengage immediately! Repeat – Do not engage!"

"What!?" The edge in Fel Banon's voice skyrocketed. "What do you mean we're retreating, Gordon!?"

"This is suicide! All aircraft, head east and rendezvous at Reagan Air Force Base!" Glenn switched his frequency over to Reagan's command center to request a recovery unit to be sent to Sgadd for the pickup of Tristan and Tux.

"Bullshit," Fel grumbled. "And I was about to score a kill, too."

The Thunderbolt fighters each began to roar east, afterburners engaged, but their problems were not so easily lost. As they began to race away from the city at just over mach one, it was clear that they were all being pursued by their opponents. Rainey was the first to notice that the blips on her radar were not falling back, and she worriedly turned around in her seat, seeing each of the enemy bandits closing in steadily. "Damn it! Glenn, they're still after us!"

Glenn's widening eyes blinked confusedly, having not expected their enemies to be so viciously tenacious. "Crap! Spread out, Thunderbolts! We can't risk going back to Reagan with them on us! Lose them NOW!"

Again, the squadron spread, some of them lifting high into the still storming skies while others took a downward direction. The enemy bandits continued on after them, their own afterburners sucking fuel as they raced to catch up with any Thunderbolt they could get a hold of.

Glenn turned around in his seat frustratedly to see if he was being pursued – and sure enough, one of the bandits chose him for a prey; one of the enemy black-hued Blue Moon fighters, at that. "One of 'em's comin' after me! I'm hittin' the mountains!"

The rapidly beginning chase between the two aircraft zoomed over towards a mountain range not far from Sgadd. Glenn's speed increased to over a thousand miles an hour, even when he entered the range itself. Swallowing hard and shaking off whatever nervousness consumed his heavily-perspiring body, the lead Thunderbolt shoved the plane into a deep chasm that stretched on for miles as he tried his best to ignore the fact he was being chased by someone who wanted to kill him – And if he wasn't careful, the mountains could just as easily take his life as well.

The enemy pilot didn't hesitate. Careening into the natural trench, the black fighter jet raced on after the equally tenacious aircraft it pursued.

Glenn carefully navigated the canyon between a collection of higher-elevated peaks, kicking this way and that way to try and evade the enemy bandit. On more than one occasion he came within mere feet of a mountainside, but the maneuvers the bandit made allowed it to stay with him easily as ever, despite the near terrifying actions the Orange Star jet performed. The mountains became filled with the roar of straining jet engines and the occasional and very loud sonic boom.

Glenn swung the yoke hard over to the side and blew past a high pillar of natural rock. The bandit followed the movement, its jet wash sending rocks and brittle flying.

Again, the lead Thunderbolt pitched his fighter down deeper into the canyon, shooting around another tall peak and leveling out as he raced onwards. Ever predatory, the enemy bogey kept on, swinging around the peak as well, but this time, as it also leveled it, it spat gunfire in Glenn's direction.

"Frickin'--!" The Thunderbolt fighter's pilot broke off and shimmied down another trail in the canyon, but this time, Glenn let loose a hail of bullets at the rocky canyonside wall. The ensuing impact kicked up an enormous set of dust, effectively blocking the bandit's vision as it careened through the trail itself.

Unfortunately, it didn't offer a great amount of assistance. The bandit did indeed race through the giant dust cloud Glenn caused, but since the pilot was obviously a skilled one, they were able to estimate where their plane was headed, and came out of the cloud in the correct direction instead of smashing right into the wall like Glenn hoped they would. Besides forcing the pilot to wash the fighter jet when they got back to wherever their miserable little base happened to be, Glenn hadn't accomplished much besides that and likely pissing the fellow off. "Man, these guys don't give up."

Twisting around another high peak, Glenn spotted another Thunderbolt being just as dogged as he was racing past his frontal vision. The name on the side of the craft said it all. "Rainey, I'm comin' in!"

"It would be appreciated, Glenn," the female pilot uttered warily over the radio.

His Orange Star fighter blasted down into the chasm where Rainey and her own pursuer had shot off to. Instantly Glenn caught sight of them as he leveled out for a moment, furrowing his brow as his determination rose rapidly. He couldn't risk firing a missile and having the bandit evade only to have it go smack into Rainey instead, so the Thunderbolt flight leader opted to simply try a different approach. "Let me see if I can scare him away."

Initiating the lock-on sequence, the heads-up display came alive as the familiar beeping sound entered his cockpit. The little square on the HUD slowly moved around the screen as it searched for its target, and eventually, as they were heading around a bend in the canyon, the square hit its mark. The beeping became constant. "Bingo!"

The enemy pilot seemed to decide that it wasn't worth the effort, and the black plane shot upwards and out of the canyon. "He's off you, Rainey."

"Thanks, Glenn. What about you?"

What about me? Glenn thought. Oh crap – He'd forgotten entirely that he'd had his own pursuer. "Shoot, someone check my six!"

Gunfire flew by his aircraft, the bullets continuing on past Rainey as well. "Look out!"

But then, as soon as they'd begun, the onslaught of gunfire ceased. Glenn heard the roar of a jet shooting skywards, and as he looked back, he could see the bandit zooming away from the canyon. In this moment, he caught sight of mysterious emblems on the side of the aircraft, along with a name – Judgment Seven?

"He's out of there, Gordon," Zodo Gallow stated into the radio as his fighter began to close up behind Glenn's.

Glenn just sat here, slightly taken back. "Gallow?"

"You can thank me some other time," Zodo uttered quietly. "Shall we see how the others are doing?"

A brief pause entered the radio link between the two of them, and Glenn finally sighed wearily to himself, suddenly feeling very tired. "Yeah."

The three Orange Star fighters rose up and out of the canyon, heading away from the mountain range as they began to seek out the positions of their still-flying comrades. As he looked off across the range, Glenn could still see the two bandits racing away, both of them heading back towards Sgadd, probably to regroup with their own flight members. Glenn only narrowed his eyes, a pain tearing through his body at the sight.

The rain continued to fall, strong as ever.

-----------------

Author Notes:

This one's finally done. Sorry it took a while to upload. In any case, I hope you enjoyed it, and I also hope you review. They're always very welcome.


	7. The Call Sign Seven

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Seven – The Call Sign Seven---**

The rain that had literally bombed Sgadd had finally passed on, but Thunderbolt Squadron was still plagued by it. By now, the weather system had progressed right over to the Reagan Air Force Base, hoarding it with a barrage of droplets, now accompanied by the occasional boom of thunder and flash of lightning. It all seemed to only intensify the emotions of seven particular souls stationed at the base, all of whom currently sat in the base's lounge room.

It hadn't been much time since the fight over Sgadd. Glenn, with the help of Gallow and Rainey, had successfully rounded up the rest of the squadron after the terrible battle with no further loss of life. Bubba was the only one who would no longer have the pleasure of resting in the lounge like the rest of them did.

Glenn grimaced from his seat at the unoccupied bar, staring out the large panel window into the rain. Bubba wouldn't even get a funeral – There had been nothing left of him whatsoever after his fighter had been blown apart by one of those damned rogue black fighters. The enemy squadron had given unto Bubba what could never be defined as an honorable death. Somehow, that only angered the Thunderbolt flight leader even moreso.

But while he hated himself for thinking it, his mind kept progressing onto the fact that they now were a member short. Commander Beauregard would have to find them a replacement for Bubba and get them working together as soon as possible. That was a laugh – Get them working together? Glenn could barely keep the squadron contained as it stood. At least he had been able to keep Bubba in-line. All he needed now was some rookie entering the squadron and immediately tossing away any possibly good terms and screwing everything up for him.

He looked over towards Tux. The pilot was sitting uncomfortably in another chair by the window, looking immensely disturbed and troubled. He'd gotten out of the medical center only thirty-some minutes before after being checked and cleared out since he'd been taken down in the dogfight. Strangely enough, Tuxedo was taking the fact that he'd been shot down in combat very seriously – and perhaps badly, at that. Tristan didn't seem to mind, since he'd ended up going down too, but Tux seemed to take it as a personal insult. Or perhaps it was a slap in the face to the guy that he wasn't as good a pilot as he thought he was.

Glenn didn't know if he could agree with such an emotion. He had been shot down himself a few years earlier in the first war by a Blue Moon fighter, but after crash-landing and forcing himself to find a way home from behind enemy lines, he simply had been too busy to bother thinking about it all. Tux had the time to do so, and Glenn decided that if he were in the usually chipper pilot's shoes, he'd probably be in the same mood.

Things seemed ambiguously quiet without Bubba around. The big man would usually be arguing good-naturedly with Tux right about now, and the silence put Glenn a bit off-center. He had to admit: He missed the bickering slightly, even now just hours after the fight. No more quips about Bubba's unsatisfiable craving for food. No more yokeling about that stone-age truck he got from God-knows-where. No more Bubba.

Glenn put a hand on his forehead. He'd lost comrades before. He could deal with this – He had to. Why was it so damned difficult this time?

The realization was obvious. It was because they had flat out lost the fight, that was why. Thunderbolt Squadron had been henpecked from the start of the whole thing, and it had only gotten worse. The enemy unit had completely mopped the floor with the Orange Star squadron, and for a moment, Glenn forced himself to keep his spirits above sea level.

He pulled his new bomber jacket closer to his body, trying to keep himself warm. The nasty weather outside was apparently bringing in its equally vile temperature somehow, probably through an airduct. It also seemed to be keeping everyone awake. The entire squadron had been up since around two or three in the morning, and most of them had all gone to bed pretty late in the first place, so their sleep deprivation had to be working wonders. Then again, Achmed seemed to be alright, considering he was taking up the entire couch while snoring like a car rotor.

"The rest of you should get some sleep. Ol' Achmed's got the right idea."

Glenn didn't need to turn around to know none of them would take his advice. He couldn't blame them. He was still a bit shaken himself. Running a hand along his cleanshaven chin to scratch an itch, the Thunderbolt flight leader simply felt it best to fall silent for the time being, since talking no doubt wouldn't do much good.

But Tristan spoke up before Glenn could take his mind off of things for too long. "I've never lost a wingmate before."

He sure didn't say it as though it were something to be proud of. If anything, Glenn knew the kid would have liked nothing more at that moment than to just up and fall off a cliff for a few days. Slumping his shoulders slightly, Glenn turned in his seat to give the younger pilot a reassuring expression. "The higher-ups usually tell us to not concentrate on the loss."

Of course, Commander Beauregard nor any official had ever said anything of the sort – It was just Glenn's own personal strategy for dealing with losses. Strangely enough, he couldn't decipher why the tactic wasn't working for him right now, but maybe it'd help Tristan out a bit. A pilot who had finally lost a wingman for the first time would need such assistance.

"I guess so," Royal responded, not exactly sounding eased by Glenn's words. Then he sighed.

Glenn hesitated a moment. Then he turned back around in his seat, taking a sip from a cup of water he'd gotten earlier, savoring the taste, however bland. In the mirror behind the bar, he noticed Fel Banon staring at him from the lounge's couch, but the ignorant fool no longer bothered Glenn as much as he used to. Nowadays he had more important things to worry about. The hell with Banon.

The newfound silence would only last a few seconds.

"Man, did we get slaughtered or what?" he suddenly heard Tux growl quietly. He didn't sound as though he were _asking_ them.

Glenn didn't turn around this time. "Next time, we'll take the butchering to them."

"How?" Tux griped, leaning forward in his seat. "We got our big, fat orange behinds handed to us! We can't fight a well-rounded squadron like them boys! Hell, they've got Orange Star, Blue Moon, Green—"

"I know that!" Glenn countered, cocking his head over towards the other Thunderbolt. "The craft doesn't matter at all. It's the skill of the pilot that counts."

He almost immediately realized that that was the absolute wrong thing to say. Tux gave him the most fiery glare, along with an outright confused expression to take up half of it. "What do you mean by that? Are you saying they're better than us!?"

"What-- No!" The Thunderbolt leader stood from his seat angrily, feeling his cheeks burn. "Damn, that's not what I'm saying! I'm sayin' that the next time—"

"Unless we wanna up and all get used as charcoal at a Black Hole luau party, there won't be a damned _next time,_ Glenny." Tux's rickety expression faded slightly, but he still sounded as ticked as before. "If we get ballsy and there _is_ a _next time,_ we'll all get ripped apart before our boring old lives can go and flash before our eyes at just the sight of those buzzards."

Fel scoffed noisily. "You're the only one who'd get themselves killed, Ral."

"Oh, put a big, fat cork in it, _Banon_." Tux sent an ugly sneer at the arrogant worm, ready to pop him a good one in his fly trap – as soon as he got ahold of those old brass knuckles of his, at least. "Then again, I don't think one would fit in your really big, really fat kisser, so—"

"Cool it," the enforcer in Glenn hissed, swiftly putting a stop to whatever argument that could have broken out all over the room. Tux and Fel shut up immediately, although that didn't stop them from exchanging dirty looks with one another.

Tristan added his own input. "Maybe we could use better aircraft. That's what we need."

"Better aircraft?" Glenn couldn't believe his ears. "What's wrong with the ones we have already? We've been kicking Black Hole's tail with them so far. I guess you guys have never heard of a little thing called _Fate's Point_."

"Glenn, when you're a fighter pilot, and you go up against another fight pilot, you've only got yourself _one chance_ – One round to take them out. There are no rematches, no TKOs, no little green _one up _mushrooms. If you lose, you lose for good, and it's game over." Tux crossed his arms, frowning detestably out at the window's grim scene. "Hell, it's a miracle we didn't all get our asses fried like chicken."

Glenn blinked, something springing into his thoughts like a shot from a gun. "That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard in my whole life."

Tux paused, then slowly craned his head back at his flight leader. "And just what in blue blazes does that mean?"

"We have something they don't," Glenn uttered, forcing himself to sit back down and calm his own nerves before he had a stroke or something. "A thirst for revenge."

The entire room went blank with silence.

"But we don't even know who they are," Rainey finally sighed. "For all we know, there could be a dozen or more new squadrons like that one today."

Glenn hesitated briefly to clearly think about something for a moment. He latched his arms together over his chest and propped a leg up onto another nearby empty seat. "We do have one clue as to their alias."

"Oh, do we now?" Fel raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but his tone indicated genuine interest in this development.

"That's right," Glenn returned, doing his best to ignore the edge in the other pilot's gaze, "we do. Judgment Seven."

Tux was the first to ask the question on all their minds – If in a slightly different manner. "What in shootfire tarnation heck is Judgment Seven?"

"It was the labeling on the side of the black Blue Moon fighter that was after me in the chase today." Rubbing an eye with a finger, Glenn suddenly began to notice how tired he really was, but kept onwards. He could sleep as much as he wanted later, provided some yokel Black Hole unit didn't come flailing up to the base firing a blue million shots in their direction, causing them all to get back up into the air for the third time since they'd woken up. "There were eight enemy fighters. With a name like Judgment Seven, I'd wager that the unit was made up of one single squadron: code name Judgment."

"Judgment Squadron," Tux seethed. "Cute name."

"Well, we can't be sure that's the case," Glenn continued. "The call sign of Judgment Seven is really the only clue I've got."

"It's the same case as it was for Kailaff Boldigh's squadron then," Gallow offered in his own input, rubbing his chin while clearly thinking the situation over. "The only difference is that they're using whatever aircraft they'd piloted before defecting to Black Hole."

Rainey's bright eyes slipped over to Gallow. "But they're using call signs. Boldigh's squadron was never issued an actual name, was it?"

"No," Gallow added, leaning against the bar near Glenn, "we were only given a random number like the rest of Black Hole's artificial intelligence squadrons. If they've given out a name to this squadron rather than a number, especially one such as 'Judgment,' that tells me that it's no ordinary unit. Black Hole must have plans for them – The purpose of the squadron is probably to undertake especially lethal missions while providing air superiority."

"Well, we found that out today." Glenn sighed. "And now we're a wingmember short."

The room again became quiet as everyone simply sat or stood, reflecting.

"I'm gonna go get some rest," Glenn finally said, rising from his seat. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in the pilot's wing."

Most of them nodded.

He headed for the door and stepped out of the lounge, quickly making pace down the hall. The rest of the squadron only sat there in silence.

As Glenn turned around a corner, he made one look back towards the lounge room's door. His hand came to his head as he fell back to lean against the wall.

"Damn it," he cursed quietly. _Just… damn it all!_

--- --- ---

"Five."

The young female pilot turned around to face her comrade. "Seven."

Judgment Seven crossed his arms, mostly to keep himself warm. Despite how the weather system that had plagued Black Hole's territory for who knew how long had passed on over to Orange Star, Black Hole still seemed to be at a constant cold temperature, especially at nighttime. Even during summer it could be this way, though it was only some time after New Year's, at the moment. "Did you hear about the Death Ray?"

Running a hand through her black hair to keep some of it out of her face, Judgment Five blinked confusedly. "No, I haven't. I can guess pretty well what happened to it, though."

"I guess an Orange Star operative and one of their fighter squadrons took care of it early this morning, just before the fight at Sgadd. They think it could have been the work of the same squadron we took on earlier." Seven stepped a bit closer to the other pilot, his arms still clinging to one another under the black bomber jacket he wore. It was frustratingly cold in the hangar.

"Oh really?" Five's tone told Seven she didn't care. "So much for Commander Hawke's newest little toy, I suppose. So now they've taken down both a Black Cannon and his Death Ray?"

"Yeah, I suppose. And I also suppose that we'd better keep our tails away from any of them for I don't know how long. You wouldn't believe how angry they are about it."

Five raised an eyebrow. "Didn't One inform them of our work at Sgadd?"

"I'm not sure," Seven uttered, realizing he should have asked the Judgment leader whether he had or not. All One had told him was that the Commanding Officers were peeved – and how. The pilot glanced at the other side of the hangar, perhaps out of embarrassment at his lack of forethought.

"They'd better know!" Five growled, her quick anger instantly unnerving Seven. The squadron's only female pilot, while pleasant enough, had a very uneasy temperament. "I shot one of the Oranges down. The ones the others took out – Pfft. Both pilots ejected, but I earned my kill. You saw the craft, didn't you? Whoever was in it got burned to a crisp."

Seven's brow furrowed. "I remember seeing a wildly spinning plane with no chance of recollection and you taking full advantage of it. Not exactly the most honorable kill, I'd say."

Her eyes widened furiously at his challenging words, but she held her tone of voice as it was. "What do you care about honor? If you give a damn about honor up there when we're pushing it, you're _asking_ to be killed."

"Honor often doesn't play a part in what we do," Seven countered, "but at times, it does. You wouldn't know. You swipe at anything you see. I'm surprised – _Eagle_ was your Commanding Officer when you were in Green Earth. Didn't he care anything about honor?"

"Of course not!" she spat. "Eagle's skills in a fighter are unmatched, whether he cares about being honorable or not."

"I find that hard to believe." The Blue Moon-born fighter pilot looked suspicious. "If Eagle cares anything about the art of dogfighting, he'd at least give thought to honor. I had to discover honor for myself. Olaf didn't—"

"I don't care about your old stories," Five grumbled, giving him a vile glare. "Why are we even talking about this?"

Seven glared back at her, though not quite as intensely. "I don't know. Maybe you just need more training, that's all. Every pilot knows honor in the skies is something to think about."

"Damn your honor, and damn you." Five turned away from him and walked away frustratedly. "The day I give thought to honor will be the day I _die._"

Seven waited until she was gone to get the final word in. "I'd wager so. You don't know anything about it, after all."

"Talking to ourselves, are we?"

Seven hesitated a moment, then turned around. Judgment One stood there, both eyes raised slightly towards the other pilot, as though asking him what exactly he was doing standing around muttering to himself.

"Sir," Seven uttered as he saluted, a bit red in the face.

One nodded. "I heard voices. Anything wrong?"

"No, sir." The Judge shook his head with a confused expression, covering the lie quite well. "I was only conversing with Five about something."

"Oh," One said quietly, "I see. She didn't give you any trouble, did she?"

"No," Seven lied again.

Hesitating, the Judgment flight leader nodded again slightly. Seven noticed that he didn't seem affected by the chilling temperature in the hangar. That would figure. One never seemed overly bothered by any sort of weather, whether hot or cold. "I wanted to talk to you about the role you played today during the fight at Sgadd."

Blinking, Seven raised an eyebrow himself. "How's that?"

"You didn't claim any kills," One returned, his voice becoming rather low. "The Commanders were expecting the elimination of the entire enemy squadron."

So One had indeed told the Commanders of the work the Judges had performed. Seven hoped he hadn't spouted anything negative to them. Who knew what consequences that would bring? "The squadron was more tenacious than we anticipated. Even after we began to pursue them, the one I chased hit the mountains, and his wily movements in the canyon we entered made things all the more difficult."

"Judgment Squadron is defined by Black Hole as the best of the best." One gave his subordinate a disapproving frown. "If we do not meet our objectives, for all we know we could be out of jobs the next day. Every time we go up into the skies, we need to do our jobs perfectly."

"I understand," Seven responded quietly. "But no one's perfect."

"We are." The frown intensified. "We have to be. If you're not perfect, my friend, you have no place within the squadron."

Seven said nothing.

"We have to be perfect," Judgment One repeated for emphasis. "Today, we weren't perfect."

"Of course we weren't perfect," the other pilot countered, staring at his leader. "You can't expect us to be when we're attacking a target like Sgadd. For God's sakes, it's Eight's hometown."

"That's irrelevant," One grumbled, his eyes moving from Seven over towards the squadron's black fighters, sitting calmly in the hangar alongside each other and seemingly listening in on the conversation for all either of them knew. "It doesn't matter whose hometown it is. The Commanders wanted us to take care of the squadron and the destruction of Sgadd was the easiest way to lure them into the open to do so. It's kill or be killed, my friend."

"I am _not_ your friend, sir," Seven responded with as much pointed realism in his tone as ever, "I'm just your associate."

One stood there, silent.

Then he turned and strode off in the direction from whence he'd come, not uttering another word to the other pilot. He stepped out of the hangar through the main entrance-exit for personnel, a chilly breeze swinging in through the door as he left.

Judgment Seven sighed to himself.

-----------------

Author Notes:

This one took a while to write up, too. And it's shorter than the majority of chapters I write, so I find that confusing. Perhaps it's just because it's mostly talk, and interesting conversations can be tricky to write out, but, oh well. I hope you enjoyed it, and I also hope you review.


	8. Broken Shadows

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Eight – Broken Shadows---**

The constant chirp of crickets sounded off across the Reagan Air Force Base.

And unfortunately, Glenn Gordon was the only one awake at the moment – Or so he figured. He'd gone to bed earlier looking to catch a few hours sleep and he'd ended up nodding off all day. Now here it was, two in the morning, and he was wide awake. For a moment, as he lay there in his bed, listening to Tux on the other side of the rather cramped room snore like a lawnmower, he considered taking a sleeping pill to help himself fall back into dreamland until the crack of dawn, but Glenn was admittedly against self-use of drugs – Even ones as supposedly tame as sleeping pills.

Sitting up in the bed and swinging his legs over the side frustratedly due to lack of foresight when he'd headed off to bed so darned early in the day, the fighter pilot rubbed his eyes, listening to a cricket outside that strangely enough wasn't put off by the engine noises coming from Tux's mouth. Glenn would never fall back asleep at this rate – That much was clear. And the possibility that a Black Hole bomber could come blazing out of the sky at any moment and let loose its payload on the sleeping base didn't make rest any easier, for any of them.

Grumbling, and halfway rolling his eyes at Tux, Glenn eventually sifted himself out of the bed. He could probably amuse himself somehow until dawn. A game of pool in the lounge room seemed like the obvious idea, or he could just fool around in the simulators a bit. Its countless scenarios could entertain him longer than pool could.

Then he hesitated a moment, closing one eye tightly at the vast amount of noise coming from his roommate's bed. Glenn stepped over to Tux and slapped a hand over the snoozer's mouth. Equally irritating snores came from the guy's nose, so Glenn pinched his nostrils shut, but that didn't help considering Tux just somehow started snoring through his ears.

Giving up and clothing himself as much as was necessary, he stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly as to not wake Tux, though he doubted the guy would wake from his beauty sleep if Glenn held a marching parade through there. The Thunderbolt pilot began to make his way down the hall tiredly, his boots sliding along on the smooth gray rug floor. Being the only one up at times was nice, as Glenn enjoyed privacy considering he got so little of it these days, but it could also feel lonely. Oh well – It would be over eventually.

As he passed the base's locker room, Glenn decided he could wake himself up a little more by batting his eyes with water. Sure, he could have done that back in his room, since all pilot rooms already came with a bathroom and shower, but since he was here, he figured he may as well put the public room to use. Only the Lord knew how long it had been since anyone had bothered using it, after all.

He sauntered slowly into it, the double-doors giving a long, agonized creak that Glenn couldn't help but grimace at. Stepping over to one of the sinks in the room, he turned on the faucet with warm water and began to bat some of it into his eyes.

Then he looked up into the mirror, and his mind began wandering over to everything that had been going on lately. Bubba had been shot down in the fight at Sgadd. No – He'd been outright killed. And bloodlessly, at that. Was Bubba Boggs going to be the squadron's last casualty? Or was he only the first of many? What if Tux or Rainey or any of the others were next?

What if he, Lieutenant Glenn Meyer Gordon, were next?

The Thunderbolt flight leader shook his head a bit to shake off such repulsive thoughts. A leader couldn't think of such things. It wasn't right, and if he knew that if he did it for too long, it would start sending him off the wagon. It had happened before to others, and he wouldn't let it happen to him. Glenn was better than that.

He wet his hands again and ran them through his short brown hair, sighing deeply.

The long-winded, aching creak of the doors sounded off again. Glenn blinked his eyes to get some of the excess water out of them and proceeded to dry them with a paper towel from the dispenser, successfully ignoring whoever it was who had just come into the locker room with him for the time being. It was slightly confusing – Glenn had figured that he'd probably be the only one up at this hour, but it looked as though he were mistaken. Someone else was obviously having trouble sleeping.

Then he lowered the towel from his face a bit. At this hour, the odds of someone else coming into the locker room just after him were very low.

Before he could continue pondering the situation further, a light clank caught his attention. Turning his head slightly over towards the locker room entrance, Glenn spied of all people Fel Banon, the tall fellow's back turned to him, seemingly fiddling with something on the heavy dual doors.

The Thunderbolt flight leader blinked again rapidly. What on Wars World was the guy doing?

His eyes locked onto a metal pipe Fel held. At the moment, the other pilot was sticking it between the double-doors' twin handles, effectively locking anyone out of the room for the time being. Glenn's eyes narrowed, slowly getting the realization of what was occurring in the next few seconds.

_A change in leadership is in order._

Those seven words that Fel Banon had uttered some time earlier shot into Glenn's mind. Instantly he knew he should be fearing for his well-being now. But Fel wouldn't be so courageous as to take matters into his own hands, would he? And with force, at that. Perhaps he intended to make it all look like an accident. No, that couldn't have been it, otherwise he wouldn't be preparing to do what he was planning on doing.

No, Fel simply planned to keep the officials wondering how in blue blazes Glenn had gotten so roughed up by someone in the locker room. Obviously they'd try to figure out who had done it, and Fel would never utter a word about it. Nor would he ever be caught, since no one else was up at this hour. And while Tuxedo was second-in-command of the squadron, Fel was the highest-ranked pilot below 1st Lieutenant Gordon.

That would automatically put him in command of the squadron until the bigwigs officially gave Tux the leadership. Unfortunately, by then, Fel would have eliminated a second-in-command entirely, giving him full, unquestioned leadership, and policy indicated that there would be little the higher-ups could do. What a loophole.

So that was it. Glenn's eyes narrowed further at lousy old Fel Banon. It was a bastardous plan, but it worked. Thank God he'd already figured it out – Glenn knew he didn't have much time to think about it much.

Fel turned around, glaring menacingly at Glenn. The lead Thunderbolt squadron member had both arms on the edge of the sink, leaning on it, as though asking Fel what he was going to do now.

The answer came quickly. Fel began walking forward, leaving the now-locked dual doors behind in his wake. Glenn pushed himself off the sink, almost inviting Fel towards him.

The walk turned into a run.

--- --- ---

There was a light buzzing sound.

"Grmf."

The buzzing continued.

"GRRGH." Tux swung a hand at the fly, still entirely consumed by sleep. The fly zipped around, hesitating a moment, then swept back towards the sleeping pilot, buzzing annoyingly in his ear as though on purpose. Again, Tux swung a hand, missing again.

The fly pitched upwards, and landed right on Tux's nose.

"Gmff... Got you – now – Blackbeard..." His hand flung right up towards his Mount Rushmore. Unfortunately, the fly raced out of the flailing hand's flight path, and there wasn't anything to hit once the palm reached the nose. "AH!"

The fly buzzed away. Tux sat up a bit, grumbling about it, and began to lay back down immediately afterwards. But before his head made it back to his warm, comfy pillow, Tux noticed something very bizarre thanks to the light of the moon shining in from their window. Glenn's bed was empty.

He turned his head a bit towards the electronic clock on the bedside table next to him. Two in the morning? Good gravy, what was Glenn out doing at two in the morning? Sitting up further, Tux examined the rest of the room to see if his roommate were still present. "Glenn?"

--- --- ---

"_Urgh!_" The heavy right hook sent Glenn crashing into the locker room's wall, a powerful pound emanating throughout the room.

Fel was there instantly. His powerful hands gripped Glenn by the throat and outright slung his leader right onto the floor, another deep boom coursing through the large, open setup. Glenn grit his teeth painfully as he struggled to right himself while Banon stepped closer.

Fel's leg swung backwards, preparing to give a monstrous kick to Glenn's midsection as the fellow lay there, but before he could execute it, Glenn swung his own booted foot right into Fel's face. The larger pilot toppled into a nearby sink, an ominous blotch of red where the ground-based kick had made contact appearing.

Swirling around after using the sink to keep his balance, Fel Banon once again prepared to dish out whatever attack he could muster, but Glenn was already at his feet once again. Another right hook from Banon threatened to send Glenn right back onto his rear, but this time, the lead Thunderbolt was prepared for it. He deflected the fist with his left arm, and with his right, sent a wide hook of his own into Fel's face again, his fist slamming right into where the reddish blotch was.

Yelping, Fel nearly toppled again. He was larger, though, and could apparently take more of a beating than the other could, and before the Thunderbolt leader could realize it, he was caught in a powerful headlock after Fel had stepped forth and brought his arm around Glenn's neck.

Gasping for breath as his hands clung to Fel's arm, Glenn struggled wildly to break free of the powerful pilot's grasp. Fel Banon didn't budge, though, and the headlock only grew more intense with strength. Glenn coughed on more than one occasion, especially when Fel cranked himself backwards and nearly lifted the smaller pilot off his feet.

Before that could happen, Glenn pushed on his feet with all his might. Fel wasn't expecting it, and Glenn guided the pilot backwards – Right into a locker. An enormous bang sounded off throughout the room as Fel's back slammed into the tin locker door, the taller military man gasping himself as his eyes widened from the very sudden pain, letting loose ever so slightly from the other fellow in his lock.

It came out of nowhere. Glenn's elbow swung backwards as Fel Banon loosened the grip. It bashed Fel right in his face, and Glenn could clearly hear something crack.

Not hesitating for even a tenth of a second, Gordon flung himself around and latched both hands onto Fel's hair, breaking into a run that again guided Fel with him. The smaller pilot sent Banon crashing right into another locker, effectively breaking its door. Utterly surprised, Fel seemed to pause for only a half-second, perhaps from both unanticipation of Glenn's tenacity and from pain. Glenn stepped back a bit, wondering if the big man were already finished with this violent plan of his.

Fel burst off from his spot and slammed his larger body right into Glenn, sending the other careening into a locker himself. The lead Thunderbolt almost collapsed, but held himself upright – Just long enough for Fel to hammer his anchor of a fist down into the side of his head. Glenn gasped and crumpled, again hitting the locker room's white tile floor.

He lay there for a moment, panting and trying to catch his breath. Fel allowed himself to grin for a moment, but then his expression went right back to its newfound-wicked self, and he bent over, looking to wrap his hands around Glenn's throat for a second time.

The heavy bang radiated throughout the locker room, accompanying the rest of the sounds of battle. As Fel had bent over, reaching down towards the other pilot's neck, Glenn's hand had shot up to a locker door and flung it open, sending it smashing right into the top of Banon's noggin. Fel grasped his head's surface, cursing obscenely as he stumbled backwards.

Glenn struggled up again before Fel caught his senses, but he was too late. Banon rushed forth, again trying to slam himself into the smaller pilot, but as he tried to do so, Glenn was the one to get him in a headlock. Glenn allowed the other's mad rush to continue, and it ended up landing right back at one of the sinks.

The attempted parry didn't quite work out as well as Glenn hoped it would. The squadron leader ended up hitting the sink itself sideways, and a vicious pain ran throughout his side. The same couldn't be said for Fel Banon, still in the headlock as they reached their destination. Glenn ended up bringing the other fellow with him so tenaciously that he outright slammed the surface of Fel's head right into a mirror, cracking the glass sickeningly.

Glenn had to let go of his enemy, though. Not that it mattered – Fel was stammering around, grasping the top of his now heavily aching head, cursing it, Glenn, and anything else in the world. The Thunderbolt flight leader used the opportunity to catch his breath again, leaning against the sink and holding his side as he grimaced painfully, praying this was over.

But Fel Banon still didn't let up. He landed against one of the locker room's walls, then almost immediately pushed himself off and tore back at Glenn, setting himself up for a wild left jab. Glenn grimaced further, doing his best to prepare for the hit.

--- --- ---

"Gall-frickin'-lousy-no-good-stinkin'..." Tux stumbled around the pilot's wing hallway tiredly, occasionally tripping over his own two feet. Two in the doggone morning and he was out and about, searching for his AWOL roommate. He needed his beauty sleep, for Pete's sake. Well, he wagered, Glenn would probably do the same for him if the roles were switched in this case. At least, that old fool had better!

Yawning, the pilot stopped a moment and rubbed his eyes. Bah – Glenn would probably be along here any minute, so a break couldn't hurt. Nor could a five-hour break. He leaned against a wall and stretched his arms out sleepily, yawning a second time.

The wall gave way, sending Tux flailing backwards. "GAAH--!"

"What the f—AAH!" Tristan ended up being fallen into as he'd opened the door Tux had actually been leaning against, and the two of them landed on the floor. "What in blue blazes--! What the heck were you doin' out there at this hour?"

Tux spat random gibberish and struggled onto his feet, quickly dusting himself off. "I was checking the door for _termites._ _Duh. _What're you doing up?"

"Those guns in the distance are keepin' me up. They just started a little while ago, I guess." Tristan rubbed his eyes as well, sighing.

Guns? Tux hadn't heard any guns going off. And if there were a battle going on this close to base, wouldn't an alarm be sounding off about now? "What the hell d'you mean, 'guns'? I don't hear nothing."

"Well, they keep soundin' off every once in a while—" A low thud seemed to riddle through one of Tristan's walls. It was a very clear sound now that the door was open to Tux. "There, did you hear it?"

Tux hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he suddenly became very awake. "That ain't no gun..."

--- --- ---

Glenn nearly gagged in agony as he was slammed back-first into one of the lockers forcefully. Fel grabbed ahold of his shirt and pulled the smaller pilot back a bit, then outright pushed him back into it, another heavy bang coursing throughout the area. Fel Banon performed the violent attack again, and then another time. Each slam grew more intense with power from the larger pilot, nearly knocking Glenn cold by the fourth one.

But before Fel could execute the powerful attacks a fifth time, he saw a thumb fly up out of nowhere and jab directly into his left eye. "_AH!!_"

The larger pilot fell back, both hands over his eye as he let the man at fault for the attack loose. Glenn didn't waste a second as he charged, pushing Fel into a locker of his own. Then, before Banon could even figure out what was going on, Glenn angrily began slamming the larger pilot repeatedly into the heavy locker, just as had been done with him.

"_Rrrgh--!!_ God – damn you!" Fel struggled and gasped with every hit, and finally grabbed ahold of Glenn's throat, using his true brute strength to sling the smaller pilot off and force him back into the sink area.

Glenn stammered back, struggling to keep his balance from the near-throw, but tried his best to ready himself as he saw Fel racing up to greet him. Another heavy swing from Banon's monstrous right clobbered Glenn in his cheek, and while the pilot didn't fall, a large red blotch of his own began to appear in the Thunderbolt leader's face.

Fel hesitated a moment just after making contact with Glenn to survey the damage he'd done.

Before he could even blink, a vicious right hook blasted into his jaw. A vile mixture of blood and spit flew from Fel's red-liquidy mouth onto the cracked mirror, but he still didn't go down, and only swung his fist right back into Glenn's rapidly-bruising cheek, effectively cutting it and sending the other pilot sailing onto the ground.

Stepping forward and rearing his leg back to give the other pilot a massive kick to wherever it looked like it would hurt most, Fel Banon growled hideously – Only to stop and stare at the locker room's dual doors as repeated knockings encased them.

"Glenn!" It was the voice of Tuxedo Ral. "Are you in there?"

"What the hell's goin' on in there?" And Tristan Royal, too.

Glenn looked up weakly at Fel as blood began to stream slightly from the cut on his cheek, smirking and snickering all the while. "So much for your plan, Banon."

Fel stood there, wide-eyed. Then his expression went to that of rage, and he reared back again to kick Glenn as hard as his aching body would let him.

The heavy foot landed right in Glenn's gut. Going bug-eyed, the smaller pilot forced himself to keep from vomiting from the vicious hit, but felt relief swarm over his body when he realized that Tux and Tristan were desperately trying to open the doors. From his viewpoint, it looked as though they were trying to kick both doors open, and while both of which were certainly heavy and durable, the two pilots outside were doing a darn good job of screwing with Fel's make-shift lock. The metal pipe fidgeted with every hit, and finally, when Glenn thought it'd never fall, it did.

Fel stared at the damage they'd done, obviously stricken dumb by how his objective had collapsed as both pilots – accompanied now by more than a few MPs – rushed into the locker room.

"Fel!" Tux yelled angrily, both eyes locking directly onto the man at fault for this entire incident. "You chicken-livered, miserable son of a bitch!"

"Hold it, Ral!" one of the MPs growled to keep Tux from outright starting a fight himself.

Tux glared at the MP, then at Fel hideously, who simply returned the expression. Not wasting any more time than was necessary, he and Tristan hurried over to the fallen Glenn Gordon, who was apparently struggling to maintain a state of consciousness at the moment.

"Take both of them into custody," the MP said to another.

Tux whirled around as he knelt by Glenn. "What!? Give me a break! Glenn wasn't responsible for this!"

"How do you know, Lieutenant?" the MP queried, stone-faced.

Still kneeling there, his expression a mixture of anger and defeat, Tux only turned back around towards Glenn, muttering obscenities to himself. The MPs stepped forth, two over to Fel and one over to the ground-based pilot still on the floor.

"We'll have to get some medical attention for him before he goes anywhere," the MP by Glenn uttered to his comrades.

"What about me?" Fel Banon asked, the edge in his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"_You're_ fine," another grumbled, frowning at him despite all his wounds. "Come with us."

And they led him out of the room, leaving Glenn and the others to wait for their leader's medical assistance.

-----------------

Author Notes:

Not a necessarily long chapter, this one, but it felt that way to write. Ah well. In my opinion, aerial dogfighting is the most exhilarating thing mankind has ever known, but, you just can't help but take a likin' to a good old no-weapons-besides-your-fists fight, I suppose. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope you review as well. They're very appreciated.


	9. Moving On

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Nine – Moving On---**

"Wake up, Lieutenant."

"I'm not asleep, you dumbwit," Glenn grumbled in response to the MP from inside the cramped cell. He'd tried to get a little bit of sleep to ease his wounds from the fight earlier, but it didn't help much. After being checked out by the medical staff, Reagan officials had deemed him fine despite a bruised rib and heavily aching body and had tossed him into one of the base's few holding cells. Glenn found having to be locked in the stupid place utterly degrading. Cells were for big, mean deadbeats with shaved heads and tattoos on their teeth. Glenn didn't belong in here, although he could certainly think of one person who did.

Fel Banon was presumably in the cell next to Glenn's. He'd been very quiet, and the Thunderbolt leader had eventually started to question whether or not the other pilot was even in there, but Commander Beauregard had stepped into the base police office to converse with Banon some time ago. Unfortunately, he'd absolutely ignored Glenn, who was very aggravated with the Commander over that now. The base's resident chaplain had bothered visiting both of them. What made Beauregard so high and might that he should ignore the squadron's leader? Besides being a Commander and all.

What annoyed him more was that Beauregard hadn't talked at all about Glenn's current leadership capabilities, and the possibility that he could have conversed with Banon over it instead was infuriating. The Thunderbolt leader had spent most of his time while awake grumbling and grousing over it as he tried to get rid of some of the pain coursing through his body and nerves until the MP outside the door had finally told him to put a sock in it.

So it was that Glenn found himself lying on the uncomfortable bunk in the side of the cell, steaming over everything that was happening. None of the other Thunderbolts had even stopped in to see him. Glenn reasoned, though, that they probably weren't allowed to. As far as he knew, he and Fel were the first members of the squadron to be thrown into one of these stinking cells, although he found it hard to believe that Tux had never been tossed into one of them himself.

"Well, get up!" the MP groused back at the squadron leader. "You're out of here."

Glenn hefted his body a bit off the bed. "Oh, am I? You're not sending me to the chair, are you?"

The MP rolled his eyes in response as he opened the creaky cell door. "As much as I'd like to, let's say you have a visitor and leave it at that."

Commander Beauregard stepped into view. "Let's go, Gordon. I'd like to speak with you."

It's about time, Glenn thought. He lifted himself off the worthless bunk and sauntered over to the door, immediately realizing how difficult it was to do so. Glenn had only been in a few fights in his life, of course none so fierce or violent as the one not long ago, but they all had the same effect whenever he'd taken a blow. A fight could often leave someone feeling just as miserable afterwards than they had felt during the damned thing, and that was definitely the case now.

"Are you alright?" Beauregard asked as Glenn stepped out of the cell irritatedly.

"I s'pose," the Thunderbolt leader responded in a half-sigh, half-grumble.

Beauregard motioned towards the office's door, and the two of them began to head out. But as Glenn stepped by the next cell, he noticed Fel Banon inside of it, lying on the bunk, looking excessively bruised and beaten. Glenn was struck as a bit befuddled by Fel's condition. It looked as though the saying was indeed true. Banon was suffering just as much as Glenn was, even so long after the fight.

Fel didn't even notice Glenn, although the Thunderbolt leader was fairly thankful for that, however much he wanted to dish out a few insults to the guy. He continued on out of the office after the Commander.

The two of them began to stride over towards the Reagan base's main command center. Beauregard gave Glenn a hard look as he walked alongside him. "I have no idea what I'm going to do about you."

"Me?" Glenn returned, a bit cross by those words, but forcing himself to refrain from meeting Beauregard's annoyed gaze. "What about that bastard back there in that cell?"

"I believe Lieutenant Banon has already had most of his punishment," the Commander said, his voice a little less harsh as he tried to convey to Glenn exactly what he meant, "courtesy of you. He'll have a loss in rank of course, but, I should hope you took a glance at him as we left. You two really had it out."

Glenn just muttered unintelligible gibberish. He hadn't exactly looked at Fel and he smashing the fiery piss out of each other as being punishment for only Banon. Now he had to wait and see what Commander Beauregard had in store for him. He'd probably have to clean the commodes for a month or some such nonsense, however ridiculous it all was for the reasons. "He had it coming."

"Whatever the case," Beauregard muttered, looking past Glenn's rather arrogant comment, "would you mind telling me exactly why the two of you nearly killed each other? Fel already gave me his story, but I'm not terribly inclined to believe it."

"Really?" Glenn questioned, growing interested. "What did that jackass tell you?"

"Oh, he gave me some dribble about how you felt he was a threat to your leadership status, so you followed him into the restroom with the intention of beating him to death." The Commander sighed, looking at the bright blue sky. "I'm fully aware of who in the squadron is trustworthy and who isn't, though, so his story didn't strike me as being truthful."

Glenn blinked, stopping. "Trustworthy? Why the hell did you put him and Zodo Gallow into the squadron then if you don't think they're truthworthy?"

"I didn't say Gallow isn't trustworthy," Beauregard started.

"Well, he's not!" Glenn groused loudly, growing even more irritated. "How would you know? You're not in the squadron – You don't have to put up with us all the time."

"We're getting off track," Beauregard coughed, almost looking sheepish for a moment, if Glenn studied his expression correctly. "I made a mistake in the fact that I didn't think Banon would go so far as to pull such a stunt. I admit that. But I'm afraid I can't take him out of the squadron at the moment, if you requested it."

"WHAT!?" Glenn shouted, causing a few windows on the nearby base to tremble ever so slightly. "What do you mean you can't take him out of the squadron!? He could have killed me, damn it!"

Beauregard sighed again, his face tightening. "Thunderbolt Squadron is short one pilot. I'll let you know right now that you, the 207th, is currently the top-ranked fighter unit in Orange Star's Air Force, meaning you have the highest kills, fewest losses, best simulation scores, etcetera. But if another member was removed from the squadron, it'd take the wing numbers down to only six pilots rather than eight. You're the best, and you had enough trouble at Sgadd. Think about how it would be if you had to go up against that enemy squadron you faced ten minutes after I ejected Lieutenant Banon."

Glenn just stood there, obviously very dejected but unimpressed with Beauregard's words.

"You need all the help you can get in the face of such an overwhelming menace, Lieutenant Gordon."

"Yeah, but it's ridiculous!" Glenn waved his hands in the air for emphasis, feeling his irritation returning rapidly as he spoke. "I've got two jackasses on my team who want to kill me and what the hell do you expect me to do? I don't know what the hell you're trying to—"

"Don't you give me that lip, Lieutenant!" Beauregard suddenly shouted violently, exercising his undeniably effective experiences as a drill sergeant, causing Glenn's posture to stiffen almost instantly. "I was kickin' ass while you were playin' dolls with your sister! I know what's best for you, and you're already in deep shit, so I don't want to hear any of this crybaby bull from you! Now climb out of your goddamn crib and step up 'cause there's a war going on here! Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes-sir!" Glenn shouted immediately, a bead of sweat rolling across his eyebrow.

Beauregard finished the conversation by swiveling around continuing his walk towards the base's main building. Glenn only stood there on the cement walkway for a bit longer, then sighed, shaking his head as he also kept on towards the command center's double doors.

How humiliating. To be in lethal combat against his own wingmates was bad enough, but to have the Commander step on him and shove sense down his throat only made matters worse for him. Granted, Glenn did feel he had a bit of an excessive ego at times himself, but everyone did. Still, Beauregard didn't need to tread all over it like that, and with such words. First he calls the 207th the best in Orange Star and then makes them out to be useless?

It was all very confusing. Glenn didn't know whether to take Beauregard's words to heart or if he should be fuming.

But before he could start racking his brain over its limit, though, Rainey rushed out one of the dual doors to the command center, nearly sending it smashing right into her leader's face. "Glenn!"

Successfully stepping – or perhaps flailing – out of the way of the door, Glenn stood there, a bit surprised by her sudden appearance. "Hi, Rainey."

"Are you alright!?" She grabbed him by the shoulders, her eyes resembling the shape of dinner plates. "Good Lord, look at your face! I'm so sorry I wasn't able to help!"

And she continued fussing at him apologetically as the squadron leader's expression became almost as feverish because of her spastic worrying. Glenn tried to ignore the face comment, since he hadn't looked in a mirror since the fight with Fel Banon, but he had the sneaking suspicion it wasn't a mug that he would have found terribly pretty. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Chill out."

"Are you sure?" Rainey sounded genuinely concerned. It was a rather comforting feeling.

"Yes," Glenn returned, nodding for emphasis. "Fel Banon is nothing I can't handle."

She looked around ready to disagree, since Glenn noticed her eyes scanning his rather war-torn face, but she didn't readily admit it. "I got so worried this morning when I heard from Tux that you'd been in a fight. And with Fel, too. He's big and he's strong—"

"I said, he's nothing I can't handle," the squadron leader repeated. "Don't take him so seriously."

"I know," she sighed, calming a bit. "Tux was real mad about it, too. I had to literally smack him to calm him down. Fel's pretty lucky he didn't get himself into two fights."

Glenn chuckled, then immediately regretted doing so when a bleak, deep pain filled his ribs. "I wouldn't have minded seeing that."

Rainey gave him a pleasant smile, her uneasiness seemingly fading, but she still looked worried. Glenn found himself moved a bit by her current pity for him, even as she seemed to struggle with the next few words. "I guess I was mistaken about Banon – You know, when I said Zodo was the one we should worry about before that training exercise we had."

An eyebrow twitched on Glenn's forehead. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"Zodo was never really the one I should have been worried about. It was always Fel. It's always been Fel. It's—"

Glenn interrupted her, if a bit rudely. "What do you mean, 'we shouldn't worry about Zodo'? Gallow is a treacherous weasel and if anything he'll try somethin' worse than crazy old—"

He got back what he dished out. Rainey almost immediately started fussing again, this time her rare angry side showing. "How the heck do you know? You never even bother talking to him, except to argue with him and curse his very being. Zodo is as good or bad a person as any of us, but you wouldn't know that, Glenn. You're just willfully ignorant."

"Ignorant?" Glenn started, almost becoming grumpy himself from her words, but he quickly shook the feelings away. "If anyone's ignorant, it's, uh..."

And he closed his mouth at once, realizing that she might have been right all along. He could very well be ignorant of Gallow. No one else seemed as against Gallow's very presence as he did. In fact, they didn't even seem to really be concerned at all by it, now that Glenn actually bothered to think about it without telling himself to despise the pilot with a passion. Now that he thought about it, was Gallow really as much of an enemy as he tried to make himself believe?

He had no idea, but he was simply too tired and in too much pain to go and rack his brain over it right now. Besides, Rainey had plans anyway, her anger beginning to fade away casually. "Let's go inside."

She received a quick nod in response. Glenn was all for the idea – Maybe he'd finally get to that game of pool he'd been looking for last night, or he could mess around in the simulators. Rainey's smile grew as she placed her hand on Glenn's shoulder, the two of them stepping into the Reagan base's command center.

And finally, Glenn returned the expression.

--- --- ---

It was raining. Again.

Judgment Seven stared out the base's window as he sat on a table, his legs propped up onto a chair for comfort. The weather was constantly eating at him. As if things couldn't be miserable enough these days without Mother Nature's help, now all they needed was for it to change again and drop ten feet of snow on them as they were taking off. That would certainly make things more dreary around here. Yes, what a splendid event that would be.

Seven grumbled and rubbed his eyes. Judgment Squadron had taken two missions since the decisive fight at Sgadd, but they had turned out to be relatively lengthy in longevity. Seven had gotten maybe four hours' worth of sleep, since he'd gotten back from the last one at around one or two in the morning – he couldn't remember. Unfortunately, the base's alarm had sounded off at six in the morning when one of those repugnant Black Hole alien officers had mistook a mysterious entity on their even more mysterious radars for an invasion force. Of course, the entire base's military ground units had blasted outside and surrounded the entity as soon as they could. Seven silently wondered what Commander Hawke would say if they had bothered arresting the bird and brought it before him.

By now it was about nine in the morning. Seven hoped the weather would clear up by noon, but with the way things were looking, that wouldn't be happening.

"Are you as miserable about the weather as I am?"

Seven turned his head a bit, and spied Judgment Eight standing not far from him.

"Perhaps," the pilot answered. "If you're wanting to go and lay under a rock somewhere for the rest of your life, no. I'm past that."

A small chuckle came from Eight, but it seemed downcast if anything.

"How are you doing?" Seven asked, considering Sgadd had been Eight's hometown and all. The pilot had been utterly distraught by the mission after it had been completed, and hadn't bothered coming out of his quarters much other than to prepare for one of those two missions they'd had or to get a bite to eat. Seven could identify with him – Eight's birthplace, presumably one of the hospitals, was gone. All of the town's medical centers were. Sgadd had housed Eight's school. He'd probably had a job in town, too. His resident church could be gone.

Hesitating a moment, Seven felt a shiver run up his lower spine as a quick thought flew through his head, one that questioned what it would have been like if that had been his own hometown.

"I'm doing better." Eight's tone didn't seem to really back up the words. "I should have guessed we'd be attacking Sgadd. I should have been prepared for it."

Seven's brow furrowed. "That's rubbish. There was no way you could know we'd be taking on a target like that. I can see why you're upset, though. One didn't really bother informing the rest of us about the attack prior to it. Only Six was really aware of our plans, and you know how closed-mouthed he can be whenever he's got a secret, thanks to that incident concerning Commander Adder. Six knew about that 'condition' he gets whenever he eats—"

Eight coughed. "I know, I know. I can't blame Six anyway. I guess I can't blame anyone."

"What?" Seven hefted himself off the table and stared at his comrade. "That's even more ridiculous. Of course there's someone to blame. Don't you realize it?"

Eight only stood there, as though taken back a bit by the words he had to utter. "One?"

"One called for the attack. Sgadd was never a target handed down by our superiors – Hawke, Adder, Lash, none of them asked for it. I doubt One has even bothered to tell them about it after its completion."

Standing there, perhaps thinking over his companion's words forcefully, Eight could only shrug slightly. "He's our leader. We have to do as he says. It's for the good of the Black Hole cause, anyway."

He didn't receive much of an answer, if it could have been called so. Seven's expression only went black as a grim frown of sour coursed through his face while grunting to show his disagreement. Eight didn't quite know how to respond to that, but did the best he could to do so anyway.

Unfortunately, before he could continue, another voice entered the conversation. "Hello, folks."

Eight turned around. Seven himself didn't move, but his eyes darted over to the newcomer. Judgment One strode up to the two of them, holding a cup of hot tea in one hand – Perhaps from the cold outside, though it was doubtful. One never seemed bothered by weather, after all, even with such miserable downpours outside. "Are we enjoying our current time off?"

"Yes, sir," Eight answered instantly. Seven didn't utter a word.

"I should hope so," One kept on, smiling pleasantly. "We'll probably have another mission lined up for us from general headquarters before we realize it. Use your time wisely."

Eight nodded, returning the expression, only his smile was fake. "Yes, sir."

Seven finally spoke up. "Will we be performing anything else like the incident at Sgadd?"

"Perhaps," the Judgment unit leader muttered, staring out the window into the rain as he answered. "We must be ready for anything, after all."

"I find that hard to believe," Seven said suddenly.

He easily caught One's attention. "What?"

"Look at Eight," the other pilot grumbled, forcing himself to keep from directly glaring at his superior. "No – Look at this man. He attacked his own hometown against his will. How could he have been ready for such a thing? We can't be ready for anything. A nuclear bomb could blow us into steaming radioactive particles within seconds. I'm not ready for that."

"If you're not ready for any situation at any given time," Judgment One returned quietly, "then you have no place within what happens to be the greatest aerial squadron in the world."

Seven stared at him. By his words, One apparently meant that he really WAS ready for anything, including his own eventual passing. Seven honestly accepted the fact that he too would die someday, but of course, it took some getting used to, nor was he sure that would be ready for such a thing when it came. When he'd been young, he'd always thought himself to be immortal – Death had been some nonexistent daydream that only happened to old or bad people. Unfortunately, as he'd grown in age and wisdom, Seven had discovered that life itself was a nonexistent dream compared to what lay afterwards. And now that he was continually risking his life every time he went up into the air, hanging his very being on a fishing line above a wave of sharks, Seven had realized just how precious it all was.

But One didn't seem to care about life. Or perhaps it was that he just wasn't bothered by it anymore. He had seen the most action out of every Judgment Squadron member, and his kill number was about as high as the elevation at which he flew his aircraft, so One not bothering to let himself be worried by his own eventual death was reasonable food for thought. Either that or One still thought himself to be invincible like Seven had felt when he'd been young.

What abysmal thoughts. Seven shook them away mentally, and decided to simply take the best choice of action at the moment: Change the subject. "What are we going to do about the squadron with the lightning bolt insignias?"

"What about them?" One asked, as though they were nothing but a passing daydream now.

"They got away before we could eliminate them."

"So?"

Seven's brow furrowed. "I wasn't aware that we didn't need to take out the entire squadron."

"I've decided that further goals concerning the squadron aren't worth pursuing." One's blank, stony expression never changed. "If an Orange Star squadron loses three planes in a fight, they'll always have trouble rebounding from such a hit. The squadron that took out the Black Cannon is of no more concern to us now."

"Even so, they will come back eventually," Seven retorted, ignoring the fact that Eight was standing there, keeping himself out of the conversation entirely at will.

"They didn't put up much of a fight in the first place," the Judgment leader answered, his tone expressing boredom for emphasis. "Any transfers or replacements the squadron receives will only hinder them anyway. We have no need to worry over them anymore."

Seven now outright glared at One. "Yes, we do."

"No, we don't," was the quick answer.

Forcing himself to keep from bursting like a volcano top at his leader's lack of thought and his blasted ignorance in the matter, Seven's eyes widened at his own words. "They have something we don't, Captain."

One stood there, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "They have nothing. And if they did, we would simply be better at it."

"No," Seven returned. "They have a lust for revenge. The hunger for revenge is what will decide whether or not the squadron is still a threat to us, and when the answer is decided, I believe we'll have our work cut out for us."

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Author Notes:

Somebody frickin' shoot me. I'm a lazy bum, yes. This chapter was also dreadful to write for some atrocious reason. I absolutely hate it when my stories get so far down in the list at when they still haven't been completed. When this happens, there's a potential that readers will have forgotten what's been going on by the time the new chapter gets up, and they just won't care as much as they used to about it, but... Oh well. I'm just glad it's finished. I hope you enjoyed this one, and I hope you review.


	10. A Long Time Coming

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Ten – A Long Time Coming---**

The room was quiet. Tux wasn't there, so that was a plus for the silence's side of the scoreboard. Glenn presumed the wickedly-gifted pilot was still engaged with himself in a game of pool in the pilot's lounge, which was good enough for Thunderbolt Squadron's leader. Glenn wanted some peace to himself with no interruptions. It wasn't that he were tired – It was that he just needed some time to think, or meditate, as he often liked to picture these pleasantly quiet times as.

Sitting on his bed, Glenn closed his eyes, a sense of peace easing over him and relaxing his weary bones and nerves. Evenings at Reagan Air Force Base were always very enjoyable, since the sun always set past the top of some distant mountain tops, making the scenery around the base very beautiful to the eyes. Orange Star's natural, delicate scenery was much more visually appealing than any other nation's – even Green Earth's. It unconsciously surprised Glenn that Orange Star and Green Earth didn't have one another's names.

He'd been sitting on the edge of the bed for a while, and by now his mind had begun to wander, most notably towards his status as an Orange Star citizen – No, his status as not only an Orange Star citizen but also as a member of its fighting forces; its essential backbone. He was a part of the few men and women who had enough courage to take up arms and fight for what was right when such times beckoned. He got paid, yes. But that was irrelevant. He wasn't doing this for the money. As time wore on as he sat there, he began to question why exactly he was here; why he was doing what he did. After all, he hadn't given it much thought when he'd gone to the recruiting office some time ago. He'd just gone and done it.

Flying planes was all he'd ever known how to do. School-teaching had been an utter disaster, and the thought of ever having a 'real' job, sitting in some cubicle while boredly pawing at a mile-high stack of papers quite frankly terrified Glenn. But why hadn't he wanted to just decided to be a cargo flight pilot or something? Why exactly was he fighting for Orange Star's safety? Orange Star had never done anything for him up until about half a year before when he'd moved into the country. And of all things, he'd decided to be a fighter pilot – The most vicious, dangerous job in the entire world.

Why did he do this?

He looked at the ground. It was for a noble cause, yes. But that wasn't enough. There was another reason, he felt.

There had to be. It could never be so simple.

It wasn't as though he'd never been without a reason. He'd just never looked up at what it was. He sensed it was there, almost to the point where he could grab hold of it, but it was invisible in a cloud of turmoil, lost among memories, passions, dreams, nightmares. Swimming through them never seemed to help, since he'd end up drowning amidst them in a vain effort to gain sight of his path. That and he was almost always too busy to even bother thinking about such irrelevance, considering he was in the middle of fighting a war and all. Still, the reason was there. It was.

Glenn hesitated, opening his eyes slightly, feeling them droop a bit from excessive closure. He reached over towards the small desk a lit lamp stood on next to the bed and pulled open one of the drawers, fishing his wallet out among the mess Tux had thrown in there some time ago when Glenn had been out.

He flicked open the wallet, ignoring what little money it contained for the moment, and quickly found what he was looking for. The little slip of paper was in the back, nestled somewhere behind ATM cards and an assortment of worthless crap Glenn no longer had much of a need for. He put the wallet aside and scooted closer to the lamp's illumination, holding the paper up a bit to the light.

And almost immediately, the picture brought back a flood of memories.

It had been taken some time after Glenn had first entered Green Earth's air force. He couldn't remember the exact date, but it didn't matter. In the picture, he looked a hell of a lot younger than he did now, but this had been taken when he'd been twenty-one or so. By now he was twenty-six – Nearing twenty-seven – and his face was more calloused, more experienced. Of course, having a blue thousand bruises all over his mug thanks to that God-damned moron Fel Banon didn't help things, but he still looked more wisened thanks to his years taking on death. Glenn had also matured greatly by now, or so he hoped. Back then, not even two years in flight school had made him look any older.

Dario Yossarian stood next to Glenn in the picture, giving the younger pilot rabbit ears. Clinton Air Force Base was in the background, and one or two Green Earth fighter jets could be made out among a pair of mountains – The sun tint in the picture made things difficult to see. Both of them had a severe case of red-eye, causing Glenn to cock a quick smirk.

Suddenly, he felt another wave – This one a barrage of emotions. His eyes flickered and wavered, and he forced himself to lower the picture before he could get choked up as he dropped his head, closing his eyes again tightly.

It was because he wanted to belong. He wanted a place he could call home and be among people like him, people he could call friends. That was why he did what he did. The feeling of being among friends – almost family members – had long eluded him when he'd left Green Earth. And now that he were here, he had for some time realized he'd been among friends, family members.

But Fel Banon and Zodo Gallow – Perhaps even Beauregard – ruined that feeling. They tore it apart with their very being and took it away from Glenn. Now, instead of feeling as though he were home, the fight with Banon made him feel as though as though he were behind enemy lines, having to keep an eye on every direction to keep from being shot at. They made him feel pathetic and miserable, and coupled with the impending, seemingly immovable threat of Black Hole, as he sat there alone, he couldn't stop one or two tears from forming, as hard as he tried to keep them from coming about.

Tuxedo suddenly burst into the room, nearly throwing the door from its hinges. "Glenn!"

Startled, Glenn opened his eyes and shoved the picture and wallet back into the drawer, quickly dispersing of his short-lived depression. "What's the matter, cowboy?"

Tux had a big grin on his face. "You'll never believed what happened!"

Raising an eyebrow, the flight leader just sat there, cocking his head to one side a bit in confusion. "Try me. What happened?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

Glenn refrained from sighing. "Yes."

There came a short pause. Tux's grin only got larger. "Ya really sure, Glenn?"

It was followed by another of its kind. "Yes."

What on Wars World was Tux so happy for? Well, he was always happy about something; most of the time this happiness centered on a woman or some such nonsense. Glenn wasn't really sure if Tux had an actual girlfriend somewhere, waiting for him to come home from the war. It was seriously doubtful, since the guy always bragged about how he'd never let a woman get him all tied down, making him stay home all the time and keeping him from doing whatever he wanted. Tux liked women, but not to the point where they got in his way.

"What if I gave you three—"

Glenn jumped up. "Doggone it, Tux, JUST _TELL ME!_"

"Alright, alright!" Tux held up his hands. "Chill. The army found a couple rogue Black Hole troops wandering around in the countryside not too long ago. This was the nearest base, so they brought 'em here."

Blinking rapidly, Glenn stood there. He hadn't quite expected that sort of answer. "Really?"

"Yep." Tux smirked that crazy old smirk of his. "They're over in some of them cells at the MP office, keepin' old Fel company. I'd say they're about as bored as he probably is, sittin' there wastin' away into nothing and all."

Glenn sat there, his eyes widening by a significant amount. Without responding again, he rushed past Tux in a dead heat for the door.

"Wait, we're not supposed to—" Tux couldn't stop Glenn. The pilot was already rushing out the door, and Tux had the feeling he couldn't stop him even if he gave the guy the nearest sports car. "Uh oh."

--- --- ---

"You miserable monkeys! You can't keep us contained in here for long!"

"Want to bet on it?" The MP casually flicked a piece of dirt off his boot as he sat there in a chair, causing it to make a beeline directly into the Black Hole soldier's helmet visor. The alien almost immediately had a raging fit, grabbing onto the cell bars with its one metal-armored hand and banging on them with its emptied gun-arm.

"Black Hole will be victorious! You'll be laying in a puddle of blood before you ever realize it!" The soldier finished this with a hideous shriek to accompany its repulsive voice.

The MP looked up, smirking and frowning at the slug-like fiend. "If you want anything more than bread and water while you're here, I suggest you put a cork in it now."

"Hah!" the soldier bragged. "You monkeys are so inferior. We can go for days without necessary digestion!"

"Then you'll go for weeks without 'necessary digestion,' if you don't shut up this instant."

The alien soldier stood there a moment, a sweatdrop rolling down the side of its greasy head. Its comrades sat crowded on the nearby bunk, showering it with hatred in their glares.

At that moment, the office's door swung open. Glenn Gordon stepped into the room, Tuxedo Ral in his trails. Tux didn't look upset at the presence of the Black Hole soldiers, but Glenn sure did – and he was actually ignoring Fel this time. Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader was already making tracks for the Black Hole troops' cell door, and he stopped as he came within feet of it. "Open it up."

The MP sat there, staring at him. "Say what?"

Glenn's eyes narrowed as they centered on the already concerned alien soldiers. "I said, open the damn door."

"Sir," the MP started, furrowing his brow, "you don't have the authorization to give me those kinds of orders, and I'll—"

But he immediately shut his trap when he saw the look Glenn gave him, and while he had strict orders from the top to not even think about letting the dirtbags in the cell out ever again, the Thunderbolt pilot outranked him anyway. Clearing his throat, the MP fished his keys off the desk and stood up, moving towards the cell door, his feet shuffling along on the thin gray carpet reluctantly. Glenn stepped back a bit to give him some room.

The Black Hole soldiers all stood inside the cell, staring at he and the MP.

Fel Banon sat up a bit from his bunk in his own cell painfully, gawking at the scene as best he could from his rather cramped position.

His forehead perspiring heavily, the MP unlocked the soldier's cell entrance. With a noisy, agonized creak, the heavy metal door slowly opened by just a tad, but that was all it took. The loudmouthed Black Hole soldier who had been giving the MP a rough time burst off from his spot and slammed his armored body right into the door, sending it flying open – and right into the MP. "Agh!"

But before the soldier could get away, a set of hands clasped onto its helmet and outright slammed the alien into the office's wall, easily putting indentures in the white cement. Glenn whirled his head around after swinging the soldier there, glaring at the MP. "Close it _NOW!_"

The other soldiers made a break for the door.

"Damn!" Glenn leapt from his own spot and hurled himself against the heavy metal gateway that determined who stayed in the cell and who roamed free. Tux gave a helping hand, though not in the happiest of ways, considering he too had to throw himself against the door just as the soldiers banged against it.

Regaining his senses, the MP swiftly moved back towards the door, fiddling with his keys frustratedly as sweat poured down his head.

Glenn glared at him as the soldiers began pushing against the half-closed door. "_COME ON!_"

By now, the big-mouthed soldier was regaining its own thoughts, and without warning, it blasted itself towards the big group over by the cell.

Easily noticing the heavy, pounding footsteps directly behind him, Tux whirled around – just in time to get hammered into. The impact, combined with the power the soldier had, sent the two of them crashing right into the door, slamming it closed, and this sent the Black Hole troopers inside falling back onto their metal rumps.

A sound "click" reverberated through the Orange Star personnel's souls, and Glenn instantly felt a wash of relief travel through him. With the cell door locked, he could concentrate on the freed soldier, but if anything it looked like doing so would be even more of a chore than trying to close the damned door. The trooper was recovering from his attack on Tux, and was obviously preparing to belt the already pained pilot a good one.

It wouldn't get the opportunity. Glenn tackled it like a football player and again slammed it against the wall. Tux stumbled forward not only to keep himself distanced from the soldiers inside the cell but also out of instinct, gasping for his breath. All the MP could do was stand back and watch, bug-eyed.

The alien choked and garbled as it again tried to nab its senses, but in a wild move, it swung out hard with its armored hand at Glenn's face, hoping to knock it clean off his head. All it got was air. The pilot had more or less shifted himself down and away to keep from losing a body part, and was reaching out to grab ahold of something himself.

The Black Hole soldier never knew what hit it. In an instant, Glenn had knocked it cold by hammering it in its visor with a nearby wrench some of the base's technical workers had been using earlier to fix something in the MP office. The alien screeched hideously, grabbing at its cracked helmet, but Glenn, if a bit overly bastardously, didn't even give it much of an opportunity to recover. He suddenly shifted onto his side and pounded its gut with his boot, sending the creature directly back into the wall again. "Ggghaghh!"

Everything froze. The soldier crumpled, gasping for breath, which ended up sounding like wheezes and snorts. Tux, the MP, and the other Black Hole troopers could only stand there, all eyes on Glenn Gordon.

Before things could calm down, though, Glenn grabbed the alien without warning and hurled it into an opposing wall with all the force he could muster. The sound of the train crash echoed across the base.

That was the last hit. Everything again went quiet.

Glenn slowly stepped up to the severely beaten soldier, the alien's knees shaken as it struggled to remain upright.

"No ifs, ands, or buts," the pilot uttered, "you're going to tell me everything I want to know."

The creature just stared at him, blinking its big, ugly eyes in confusion.

Glenn swung out hard with his leg at the alien's kneels, instantly toppling it. "Gah!"

"Glenn!" Tux almost yelled. "Damn! Chill out! He can't tell you nothin' if he's dead."

"He'll tell me everything or he'll BE dead." Glenn spun the wrench in his hand, glaring menacingly down at the fallen Black Hole trooper. The trooper only returned the expression, the two enemies staring each other down hideously, each somehow restraining the urge to release their violent instincts and tear one another apart. Glenn's hold on the wrench tightened. "You're lucky I don't kill you right now like the dirty, mangy dog you are."

Tux couldn't remember any sort of instance where Glenn acted in such a manner. It almost scared him, but if anything, he was more frightened of what would happen if it came out against him. "I reckon bein' locked up next to old stinky there in that other cell has already frightened the little bastard enough as it is. He doesn't need any death threats."

Hesitating, Glenn turned slightly and eyed Tux strangely. "Are you saying I should take it easier on this son of a bitch?"

"I'm just standin' back to make sure you don't do nothin' stupid." Tuxedo Ral stared right back; Glenn couldn't remember a more serious expression on the man's face. Torture wasn't something looked upon very well by the upper military staff in Orange Star, and the Thunderbolt squadron leader was walking a damn thin line already. He didn't need to get in any more trouble – The last thing the entire squadron needed was to have their boss reprimanded.

The Thunderbolt leader turned away from Ral and gazed back down at the Black Hole infantry thing. "Like I said, you're going to tell us every single thing I want to know or we're sending you to the slaughter house for meat packaging."

"You can't do anything to me," the trooper challenged in an overly calm manner, its disgusting voice making it difficult to understand at first. "You'll only get yourself into a hole if you touch me again. You can't touch me at all!"

Glenn kicked it right in its face.

Another crack appeared in the trooper's glass visor, and its head banged against the side of its helmet harshly as a repulsive screech echoed across the room. Tux swallowed hard, suddenly aware of Glenn's current anger level; all the MP, Fel Banon, and the other Black Hole soldiers could do was watch from a painful distance. All Gordon did was leer down at it, obviously growing heavily annoyed with the little slug.

"Tell me about Judgment Squadron," he uttered quietly.

"What!?" the trooper blared, half out of anger, half from wonder.

Glenn slowly placed the wrench against the larger crack in the soldier's helmet. "Tell me about Judgment Squadron."

The trooper's blood-red eyes centered directly on the ace pilot, sweat pouring down its forehead as it began to seriously consider its predicament. "What about Judgment Squadron?"

The Thunderbolt leader just blinked. "Are you mentally deficient? Tell me what you know about them..."

The trooper stared at him.

"... before I _kill you_," Glenn finished, his eyes sharpening angrily.

Fear thundered in the soldier's eyes. The Orange Star pilot was not kidding.

It couldn't find words, though. Its filthy tongue was entirely dry, its throat croaking as it struggled to speak to save its miserable life. All it could do was sit there and look pathetic, and that annoyed Glenn. He wasn't getting the answers he wanted, needed. This soldier was the only source of information he had on Judgment Squadron at the moment, and he'd be damned if he lost that possible info.

"You know," he uttered, "when I was still in my home country, we had a saying among the Air Force, one in the old Green Earth language. _Jedoch nützlich oder unbrauchbar. _Translated to Standard, it meant _however useful or useless. _Do what you must to the enemy, however useful they may be to you or useless they are to their superiors. An enemy is an enemy no matter what. I'm sure all you slime-filled lizards in Black Hole's forces have some sort of meaningful phrase like that, so you can understand exactly how serious I am about my work. I hope."

"I don't know anything!" the trooper erupted in fright. "I swear!"

"You little God damn LIAR!" Gordon dropped the wrench and grabbed the sides of its helmet. "How would you like this thing to come off? You wouldn't like it very much, huh? A nice fat intake of our planet's oxygen can't be good for your cholesterol, you little piece of Klingon trash!"

"NO!" the soldier barked. "Wait--! Wait!!"

"**STOP!**"

Glenn indeed stopped, and rose slowly to eye where the source of noise had come from. One of the alien troopers was standing before its comrades in their cell, its hideous eyes locked dead on the Thunderbolt leader. "I can tell you about Judgment Squadron."

The Orange Star squadron leader stood there a moment, then smirked. "Can you, now?"

"I was stationed at their base before being sent out here," the trooper remarked bluntly, if a bit defeatedly. Obviously the realization had come about that they really would have to talk, or else.

Glenn smirked further, then glanced at the fallen Black Hole soldier.

Only then did he notice the damage his quick interrogation tactics had done. The trooper seemed very nervous and uncomfortable being so close to him, and it was still sweating heavily, causing its forehead to appear even more repulsive than as normal. For a moment, Glenn considered the possibility that he may have overdone it a bit.

But Black Hole had killed his companions. Bubba Boggs was gone because of them. They threatened everything that was good in the world, and for that reason, Glenn decided to stand by his actions. He turned and began stepping towards the cell.

He couldn't ignore the hard look he received from Tuxedo Ral on the way, though.

-----------------

Author Notes:

It's been a long time coming. I'm glad to finally finish another chapter of this story. It feels like it's been a year since I updated. What annoys me is that anybody who may have been reading it have likely been away from it so long that it'll be difficult to bring 'em back up to date, but, that's what I get for my own vile combination of business and laziness. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'll try and get another one up soon if it gets good feedback. Thanks.


	11. Like Steve McQueen

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Eleven – Like Steve McQueen---**

Tuxedo Ral walked along quietly in the Reagan base's pilot wing hallway, the only audible sound being the continuous clomp of his leather cowboy boots shifting across the soft carpet floor. Glenn's little interrogation of the captured Black Hole soldiers hadn't lasted terribly long, as the rather vexed pilot had easily gotten whatever information out of the slugs he'd wanted, but at the same time, Ral was heavily troubled by the man's sudden wrath. It was unlike Glenn to lose his temper or his cool, as he was normally a very self-controlled individual, but he'd been through a great deal of pain lately – Partially from the loss of Bubba Boggs and the threat of Judgment Squadron and partially physically from the fight with Fel Banon.

By the time the interrogation had ended, Glenn had ordered Banon out of the cell. At first, everyone in the room had done a double-take at this, including Fel himself, but Glenn stood by his decision. Fel Banon was released from the prison. Glenn hadn't bothered telling anyone why he'd let the guy out, but Tux reasoned that it was because Thunderbolt Squadron was so hampered already. Bubba was gone, and with Fel out, the squadron would have been short two pilots. If they happened to go into combat again, they would be at a serious disadvantage, despite the squadron being one of the best Orange Star had.

This thought brought back a bizarre memory. Glenn had once told Tux of something Rainey had said – Fel cared about Glenn. She'd mentioned this just after Glenn had been shot when Black Hole troops had invaded the Reagan base, but he'd had trouble believing her at the time. Tux had to admit that he found it a little wacked out as well, but at the same time, something told him that the statement wasn't entirely false. From the way Fel acted sometimes, he obviously enjoyed the company of his fellow pilots for what they were worth, despite how he never showed it. Why the man would beat Gordon down to take command of the squadron confused Tux immensely.

He exited the hallway and headed into the empty lobby, staring out the glass double doors that led out towards the runways. Tuxedo Ral had to admit, he enjoyed nighttime more than the day, especially during flight. It was now around eight or nine o'clock at night, effectively casting the Reagan Air Force Base into darkness. Heartbreak and Sunset Squadrons were busy practicing maneuvers up in the sky, and Tux silently envied them, wishing he could be up there right now. Unfortunately, Thunderbolt Squadron was grounded for the time being, what with the loss of a pilot. George Beauregard still hadn't gotten them a replacement, and Tux wondered if they'd even get one at all.

Slowly stepping up to the doors and the large panel windows, he rested an arm on them and gazed out at the stars, coupled with the occasional flashing orange lights on the underside of an Orange Star fighter. Tux sighed to himself, feeling the effects of stress for the first time in years. He himself was as self-controlled as Glenn was, if not more, but the squadron's status and the war itself was doing a number on his nerves. He was the only member of Thunderbolt Squadron who ever bothered to smile and bear it anymore, but at the moment, he sure didn't feel like smiling. If anything, he wanted to go off alone somewhere and just relax, if not have a pity party. Tux didn't like feeling sorry for himself, though – He wasn't no damn sissy, as he frequently put it to his companions.

Still, there was no denying that he wanted the war to end. While he was glad he wasn't in the Army, since the Orange Star ground forces were in combat nearly every darned day, holding the front lines relentlessly against the onslaught of Black Hole, he had to admit that despite how he loved flying, it could really take a toll on a person's body if they did it in the manner he and his compatriots did. It unconsciously surprised him that he hadn't become a casualty of war yet, what with the terrible battles he'd been a part of thus far.

The thought of actually dying in battle scared him suddenly. He grimaced, forcing the thought out of his mind. He'd never readily admit it to anyone anyway, so he decided to not worry about it.

"Tux?"

The voice startled him slightly, but not enough to jump. Tuxedo hefted himself off the doors slightly and turned to acknowledge his new company. Rainey Banker stood there, gazing at her fellow pilot.

"Are you alright?" she asked, obviously having noticed how tired he'd appeared before speaking.

Tux cleared his throat, shaking away whatever thoughts he'd been thinking prior to her arrival. "Yeah, I'm super. What about you?"

She shook her head, tucking a patch of her blonde hair behind her ear to keep it out of her eyes. "I tried to get a little bit of sleep, but I couldn't. It's too early, I guess."

"Mm," Ral confirmed.

The squadron's only female pilot stepped closer to him and gazed out the window, just as he'd been doing. "Nice night."

Tux turned around and fixed his attention towards the sky again. It was indeed a fairly admirable night – The fact that the sky was not only looking at them but at a horrible battle somewhere as well troubled him, though. "I reckon so."

Hesitating, it took a while for Rainey to speak again. "I hear Glenn's sort of in trouble."

"I reckon so." Tux refrained from sighing again. "I'll bet that officer in the MP building tattled to Beauregard or somethin'. I just hope Glenn don't get reprimanded or nothin'. That's the last thing we need."

"I don't really think he'll get reprimanded, but he's sure going to get a talking to. Commanding Officer Andy is making a stop here tomorrow for something. Maybe he'd going to chew Glenn out."

Tux snickered, envisioning twenty-six year old First Lieutenant Glenn Gordon standing there, forced to listen to Commanding Officer Andy bark at him like the crazy kid he was. "That'd be a sight for sore eyes. I remember when nosey old Beauregard squabbled at me over whatever. Man, that was enough for me. I can't imagine what would happen if I got in trouble with a Commanding Officer."

Rainey chuckled as well. "Do you remember what you did to get in trouble?"

A smirk crept at the side of Tux's mouth as he began to feel his nerves relax thanks to the company of the fellow pilot. "I s'pose I musta said somethin' I shouldn't have. Probably told Fel his momma'd make a good poster girl for Black Hole army recruiting. I'unno."

The girl refrained from snickering harder. "Poor old Fel. He's always at the end of everything."

"Pfeh," Tux groaned. "Ain't like he doesn't deserve it."

"I guess not," Rainey responded, her smile fading a bit.

They gazed out the window for some time longer.

Only after a full minute of silence did Tux turn his head slightly and look at Rainey Banker in her blue eyes. It took a bit of time for Rainey to notice, but when she did, she just stared back, at first not knowing what to say, confused slightly by his demeanor.

"What's the matter?" she eventually asked.

Tux's expression showed curiosity. "This squadron has been around for six or seven months, Rainey. I ain't known hardly nothin' about you since I met you, though. I know about Glenn – He's my pal. I've talked a lot with Tristan, too, and Bubba, before he went to the Lord 'n' all. Heck, I know more about Fel 'n' Zodo than you."

She seemed a bit caught off-guard by this statement. It took her a moment to respond. "How's that?"

Tuxedo Ral looked out the window again. "Uh, I don't know. All you and I ever do is argue with each other. We've never had a decent conversation. I guess maybe because I hung around Cass' too much."

Tux had obviously been a little taken with Cassie LaGall before she'd been killed. All the two of them ever did was bicker with each other as well, though. Most nights of Ral's would be spent in the room Cassie and Rainey shared, but when Banker would leave thanks to his arrival, she was fairly certain that all they would do was talk and argue. Tux probably wasn't aware that most everyone on the base knew this, since no one had ever mentioned it directly to him.

Rainey just eyed him, if a bit quizzically. "I guess so. I was admittedly always kind of hesitant to talk with you, since you and Cassie seemed into each other."

"Say _what?_" Tux's head jolted towards her as a very bizarre expression appeared on his face. What did she mean by that?

Rainey didn't really respond. She just sort of shrugged, and it only confused the other pilot more. He decided to let it drop, though, as another question surfaced. "Tell me about yourself."

"Do what now?" Rainey almost started to laugh, but wisely held off on it when she noticed her reaction clearly embarrassed Tux. "What do you want to know?"

The other fighter pilot let the ill feelings go. "Where're you from? What're your hobbies?"

She still seemed a bit put off by his commentary, but Rainey decided to answer him anyway for whatever reason, a smile still plastered on her face. "Well, I'm from Spann Island, but I grew up in the capital."

Tux grinned suddenly. "Hey, how about that! I'm from Duo Falls!"

She returned the expression, surprised by his statement. "Really? That's pretty close, isn't it? Just a bit west?"

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "My brother Fireball was stationed at one of the army bases on Spann, too, before this whole war thing started."

Rainey laughed out loud this time, grinning wider than before. "Fireball Ral? Good grief, Tux, what're your mom 'n' dad's names? Prettybird and Moonflower?"

"Very funny," wily old Tuxedo Ral muttered, despite keeping up a grin of his own on his part, "I've heard worse. What about your hobbies?"

She just shrugged again, gazing outside toward the flashing lights of a fighter in the sky. "Well, I don't know. I like baseball, I guess. I played softball in high school before I joined the service. No one really ever came to the games, since I guess most teens aren't interested in watching women play sports, 'cept if they're pretty, but I enjoyed it anyway."

"What position did you play?" he asked entirely out of honest curiosity.

"Shortstop." Rainey looked back at Tux. "I was the only one who wanted to do it. The person in that position has a pretty big burden, so no one else felt as though they'd do very well."

Tux nodded. "If it makes you feel any better, I s'pose I would've gone."

At first, Rainey smirked. "Yeah, sure you would've."

He had to admit that no, he probably wouldn't have, but girls loved being humored – or so he thought.

"What about you?" she asked suddenly. "What do you like to do?"

Tux's expression went a little blue for a moment, as he probably hadn't been expecting her to ask him.

"Me?" the usually squirrelly pilot questioned. "Well, uh..."

Rainey's grin brightened. "C'mon. What, were you on the chess club or something?"

He cleared his throat, shifting his gaze outside. Watching him for a moment, Rainey just blinked.

Finally, Tux said what she'd been expecting, to her disbelief. "Maybe."

The female pilot's blue eyes widened. "Really? You're joking, right?"

Tux sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, suddenly wishing he or she were somewhere else at the moment, though it only lasted an instant. "No."

"_WOW!_" Rainey exclaimed, her expression still shining as she continued to try and make some sense of what he'd just told her, even as he flailed his hands to try and shut her up. The last thing he evidently wanted was for the entire base to know about it. "Crazy old Tuxedo Ral was a member of the chess club in high school! I had you pegged for a wildman in a motorcycle gang, Tux, or a reincarnation of Steve McQueen."

"Who's Steve McQueen?" Tux asked confusedly.

"Never mind."

"Well, shootfire," he bragged, "maybe I _was _a wild member of the local motorcycle gang who also just happened to be in the chess club. A guy's gotta widen his limits, doesn't he?"

She just chuckled. "Those are some pretty wide limits."

"Darn right," he answered, also snickering, admittedly finding the thought a bit out of place himself. "I'm probably still as good at that boring old game as I ever was. I hear Zodo's pretty good -- Maybe I can challenge him and sorta soften his ego up a little when he loses miserably."

Rainey nodded, still grinning. "That would be nice."

The conversation seemed to widdle away after that comment, but Rainey's silent gaze remained on Tuxedo Ral.

Tux turned his head slightly and returned the fixed expression, eventually smiling at her out of politeness, but unsure of what to make of the gaze.

"Hey, guys!"

Startled, the two pilots regained their sense of surrounding and shifted themselves to eye another newcomer. Glenn Gordon just stood there in his officer's uniform, blinking. "What're you folks doin', having a staring contest?"

"We were just talkin'," Tux said simply. Rainey remained silent. "So are you in trouble with Command or anything?"

"A little," Gordon uttered, obviously having no desire to speak of that at the moment. Tux and Rainey had to admit, they would have felt the same way if they'd been in his boots. "I just spoke with Beauregard. We're ready to fly."

Thunderbolt Squadron's downtime was over. They were back on the highest level of alert the Air Force had, as standard. Tux and Rainey's expressions went sour, and the noisier of the two immediately barked at this seemingly senseless revelation. "Say what? But we're short one man! Did Beauregard—"

"No," Glenn interrupted. "We still don't have a replacement for Bubba. I talked to him about getting someone from Sunset, but he said that Heartbreak is the only squadron that we can get a pilot from. I wasn't going for that."

"Geez," Tux grumbled, "we already have one doofus from Heartbreak spoiling the party around here. Don't need another one helping him gang up on the rest of us."

"Can't we bring in someone from Green Earth?" Rainey questioned. "The Air Force Alliance program allows that."

The squadron leader just shook his head disappointedly. "Can't. Green Earth has their own hands full, just like us. They're gonna look into someone from Yellow Comet, but I don't think that'll have much success either."

"Doggone it," Tux growled, "what the hell are we supposed to do with a man short? We've got you, me, Rainey, Tristan, Fel, Zodo, and Achmed! Seven damn people! We'll go up there and be at an immediate disadvantage when one of those Black Hole crows dives out of them clouds and takes the fight to us. You're tellin' me we can't get _anybody?_"

"Not a soul," Glenn sighed. "It frustrates me to no end. There's probably a big mission coming up that'll have to involve us, though. They wouldn't put us up in the skies without there being a damned good reason for it."

"As long as it isn't another Fate's Point," Rainey commented, "then we'll do alright. We were short of pilots there, and we came out alright in the end."

Glenn crossed his arms, smirking. "It's not fair to us, regardless. We shouldn't have to go up there wounded like they're makin' us. Hell, put a green kid in a plane to go up with us and we've got a better shot at coming out okay."

"I guess." Tux leaned against the large panel glass on the window tiredly, rubbing his nose. "We can take some consolation in the fact that at least we've got each other, and we can depend on one another, right?"

"Yeah," Rainey nodded, trying to put up another of her pleasant smiles. "We've got each other."

Glenn didn't look very impressed. "Will we still have each other after we encounter the Judges again?"

The two other pilots had to admit that he was more than a little right. There was almost no doubt that they would have another run-in with Judgment Squadron before the end of the war, and even more obvious was that Glenn was going to force it onto all of them whether any of the pilots – either their squadron or the enemy's – wanted it that way.

Glenn's demeanor changed swiftly for the better. "So what were you two talking about?"

"Well, uh," Rainey responded, "we'd just never really talked before. It's about time we did so."

Gordon looked slightly fuddled. "Oh? Tux tellin' you all his lovely little tall tales about how he won the Mondo Bowl and the Alora 500 single-handedly in the same day?"

"Now I only told it that _one time,_" Tux barked, "you know, to that actress person we met comin' out of Dead-Drunk Dave's bar over in Bross Town."

Glenn blinked. "That actress person? Tux, she was a damn porn star."

"Hell, that qualifies her as an actress." Tux hefted himself off the window and stepped away towards the hall. "Shoulda gotten her autograph. Coulda sold it on ePay for hundred bucks."

Rainey's eyes nearly rolled up into her skull as she sighed, wisely staying out of the conversation at hand.

"Her name was Jasmine, you weirdo. There are probably at least fifty porn stars out there with the same name. No one is going to buy a doggone autograph of a porn star with the name Jasmine, heck, she wasn't even that pretty." Glenn put his hands on his hips.

"So what if her name was Jasmine?" Tux raised his arms, as though trying to figure out what the deal was. "They've probably got Navy pilots who've got the call sign Jasmine. Hey, speaking of which, why doesn't the Air Force use call signs like the Navy? I've asked everyone except Beauregard here and they won't tell me."

Glenn shrugged. "Who cares? They're flyin' for the Navy! We're not the Navy!"

"Well, hell, we should transfer, so we can get cool nicknames like Snake, or Outlaw, or Jasmine." Tux turned as he reached the hallway, still intent on keeping this stupid conversation going. "Or Goose! I heard that one's kind of unlucky, though."

"If you want in the Navy, have fun enjoying the scenic view of nothing but water for months at a time. That's all you'll ever see on those carriers." The Thunderbolt leader grinned.

"Pfft," Ral spat as he turned towards the hallway, deciding it wasn't worth it after all, "as long as there's women there, the _scenic view of water _can eat me."

Glenn watched crazy old Tuxedo Ral leave the pilot wing's main office, and he shifted his attention towards Rainey. "Is that guy somethin' else or what?"

The squadron's only female aviator rubbed the back of her neck, unable to disagree. "Yeah. He's something else."

The way she said it sort of baffled Glenn, but he didn't think much of it. "I'm just glad he handles himself when we're up in the clouds. He's second-in-command of the squadron for a reason, after all."

"Mm," Rainey acknowledged. "He's certainly the life of the party."

"Hey," Glenn started, "do you want to go with me to get some coff—"

"Uh," she interrupted, stepping away from the window herself, "I can't, Glenn. I just came out here since I couldn't sleep. I'm going to go back to bed now."

"Oh," the other pilot mumbled, "okay. That's probably a good idea, since we're back on alert. I'll try and get us up in the sky doing maneuvers tomorrow, like Heartbreak and Sunset. Be ready for anything."

Rainey just nodded and stepped past him. "G'night."

"'Night," Glenn responded, watching her exit. "I guess."

He stood there a moment longer, his expression once again forming a bizarre look. _Was it something I said?_

-----------------

Author Notes:

Up until now, Rainey Banker hasn't gotten much time on stage. Sure, she's a blatantly obvious love interest for our main character(s?), but I never really spent much time on her. I don't want her to be a bland, stereotypical female character, considering she's a fighter pilot – The very same as the other squadron members. She experiences and instills the same terror the men do. Hence, this chapter focused on her, along with Tuxedo Ral, who I've wanted to elaborate more on for some time too. I wish I could do the same to all the pilots, though. Fel, Zodo, Tristan; they all need more stage time. And poor old Achmed -- he's standing in the background picking his nose or something. Oh well. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and keep an eye out for the next one. As always, reviews are very welcome.

Oh, and try and spot the little reference to my most frequent reviewer. It's in there. No, you are not allowed to go to "Edit" and "Find." That's called monumental cheating.


	12. Ready to Fight, Willing to Die

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
****By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Twelve – Ready to Fight, Willing to Die---**

The silky-smooth clouds parted way, giving Macro Land a fresh taste of the bright blue skies while a war waged down on the ground. Thunderbolt Squadron had flown two missions that week, the first being a fairly standard "gun and run" scenario where they'd blown a very basic Black Hole military facility to hell; the second took them across the front lines to bombard enemy artillery positions. Neither mission had brought any great deal of danger, and it made the squadron members seem a little more content with the way things were going as of late.

Unfortunately, central command apparently enjoyed giving the squadron run-of-the-mill duties fit for a beginner's unit. Patrol was quite possibly the most boring mission available, but it seemed as though they were getting stuck with it a lot lately. The patrols didn't last terribly long, however, and that made it easier on everyone, but it still obviously got on their nerves that they had to do such nonsense while other squadrons like Heartbreak had the pleasure of taking on what Tuxedo Ral would likely call the "fun stuff."

Glenn Gordon couldn't disagree. He'd had more entertainment out of raking gravel than he'd ever gotten out of a patrol.

He gazed out the canopy from under the ominous, lightning bolt-adorned flight helmet he wore, the dark, almost black visor effectively shadowing his eyes from the hideously bright sunlight daring to reach out and scrape him. The landscape, though remarkably attractive, was rather empty and barren, with the occasional mountain shooting to the stars. Glenn sighed under his oxygen mask. "I've had more fun on a rocking chair."

A similar, distinctive groan coursed through his ears. Tuxedo Ral muttered something unintelligible from the fighter jet directly next to Glenn's, something likely not very nice. "Couldn't we at least do Recon or something? I'm sure that somewhere, some crazy little Black Hole guy is pulling a SAM launcher out of their ass or somethin' and pointin' it at the skies just looking for birdies like us to paint. Take some photos of his greasy ass, and BAM! We send our boys on the ground in. Now that's what I call huntin'."

Glenn couldn't help but grin at such a prospect, though he would have preferred simply dropping a missile on them instead of letting some infantrymen handle Black Hole. "Not a bad dream."

"So," Tux eventually started up again, "how do you feel? Your little tiny ribs all better from the whuppin' Fel laid on 'em?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," the flight leader returned, taking part in the small talk simply because he was otherwise bored out of his skull. "They're still investigating all that hooplah, but Beauregard told me if anyone will probably get court-martialed, it's Fel. Can't do it now, though. Everyone's too busy, I guess."

He should have been infuriated by such a prospect, but in all honesty, he no longer particularly cared about the incident. Everyone else certainly did, though, especially Tux, who couldn't keep from laughing in his cockpit. "BOY, if that ain't a load of crap! You got screwed, man!"

Glenn just muttered something, wishing the guy would drop it.

After an agonizingly uneventful few minutes, Tux once again got wound up. "I am so... damn... bored."

Glenn somehow refrained from rolling his eyes as he gazed off towards the mountains, making sure to keep his nerve up and do his job, despite how he had no desire to actually perform it at the moment. "I wish I could help, but Beauregard doesn't seem to agree with our claims that all we're doing up here is wasting fuel. Hell, we're a hundred miles from the front lines."

"They've probably already fought here, if anything," Tux commented. Orange Star forces were beginning to slowly but steadily push the enemy back, but as always, the tide could turn at any moment. Central command had informed the squadron that they'd likely be going on sorties once or twice a day from then on, given the rate at which the war was moving, but so far, they hadn't had the pleasure of being sent up that often for some reason. This was ridiculous, though. Orange Star had reoccupied this territory long ago, and they'd have taken care of any remaining Black Hole units, regardless. Tuxedo Ral didn't understand it at all. "Man, what time is it?"

Glenn glanced at his fighter's instruments, eventually finding the neon-lit clock that was often of little use with the large distances they normally traveled. "It's around eleven. We've been up here for fifteen minutes."

"How long did Beauregard say we had to keep this up?" Tux always found the right time to not listen to the Commander during briefing. It never failed.

"Over an hour - Basically until we run out of floating juice." Glenn boredly picked at the flightstick, scratching a tiny piece of rubber off of it for no reason other than it didn't look nice.

"G'agh!" The other fighter pilot would have fallen back in his cockpit seat if he could. "That'll take forever! I'll be withered away to bones by then!"

"Oh," Glenn uttered, garbling frustratedly, "stop complaining, it'll be over soon."

Tux seemed to disagree fully, if anything. "No it won't! We're gonna run out of fuel because Cap'n Beauregard-"

"_Commander,_" Glenn half-corrected, half-sighed.

"-_Commander _Beauregard will tell us to fly on over to that there Green Earth territory and make us do all sorts of fancy maneuvers to show those boys up. Not that I'd mind, but still, c'mon. This is plum kuh-RAZY. If I wanted to waste time, I'd at least do it in the company of women drunk off their booties. I mean, _blah, blah, blah… etcetera… etcetera…_"

Mumbling to himself, mostly over how irritated he was becoming with Tuxedo's almost overwhelming complaining phase, Glenn considered pulling the ejection handle to rid himself of such nonsense, but before he could ponder it for very long, a quick-worded tone suddenly cut in on Ral's blabbering, scratches and fuzz at first filling his hearing thanks to the radio inside his helmet. The familiar voice of one of the Reagan Air Base control room's servicemen entered the conversation between the two pilots.

"_Control Room to Thunderbolt Squadron Element One, long-range radars have picked up the presence of multiple unidentified aircraft in sector five-one-oh. Scout units have reported a small Black Hole convoy moving south across the Letolia Plain towards Krasst in the vicinity of the aircraft. Intercept and identify at once, as the leakers may be another Orange Star or otherwise allied squadron_."

Glenn's eyes hardened as he let the orders sink in. "Looks like a couple of Black Holers snuck past our forces. Either that or they got lost."

Tux just sighed over the radio in response. Obviously taking care of a little Black Hole convoy didn't sound like it would be much different than what they'd been doing that week. Someone had to do the job, though, and it may as well have been the two of them. "Let's get this over with. Heading?"

"Point three-twenty," the flight leader responded as he rolled the craft a bit to change its direction. The two fighters increased in what was already breakneck speed, charging forth toward the scene of the crime laid out to them by their superiors. Both of the aircraft easily reached mach one within only a few moments, especially when they began to drop their altitude to get a better look at the ground as they shot over it. They certainly didn't need to go blowing by their future targets when the time came to battle, after all.

As he inspected the landscape, Glenn thought a moment to himself. At this rate, Black Hole and the allies were pushing hard against each other, but with the combined force of multiple nations, their vile enemy could only hold on to stolen land so long. He felt like he was sitting in a cockpit more often than in an actual chair, at this point, but a hard life was required when trying to win a war they seemingly had been destined to lose, at first. They couldn't afford to slink around playing volleyball or tiddlywinks – Sure, time off was great, especially with combat being as stressful as it was in the air, but Glenn wasn't about to let himself slack off against the enemy, and as a squadron leader, he had to keep the others on their toes as well.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be the only individual who really gave a large damn about pushing himself. The squadron's second-in-command, wily old Tuxedo Ral, who was still complaining to himself in the plane beside Glenn's, was hardly what one could refer to as an _enforcer. _If anything, he would readily allow himself to go battle Black Hole's wicked forces on a golf course somewhere in the country. Glenn knew he could count on the know-it-all doofus in the air, but getting some help from him on the ground was a different story altogether. Granted, he'd grown used to that, at least. "Switch to long-range radar imaging."

For a moment, he wished the rest of the squadron were accompanying him in this effort. He could have used their help right now – along with their emotional support. Tux was great to have around, but he still hadn't shut up, and by now, ever since meeting him, the guy had learned at least a blue million ways to get under Glenn's skin. Bitching in the air happened to be one of them. "Tux, just can it."

"I can't help it, Glenny," the other fighter pilot commented, his tone dipped in a vat of sarcasm. "Being hurled into a world war doesn't quite have the effect on my spirit that cute puppies and fields of flowers—"

The radars in the two military machines _beeped _ever so quietly, a noise that effectively silenced Thunderbolt Squadron's second-in-command pilot. Glenn's head cocked down slightly, his pupils locking on the small green dot stating the presence of a visitor off to their two o'clock. Odd was it, Glenn decided very quickly, that any aircraft would be flying by its lonesome during times like this. That couldn't have been the unit they were supposed to be going after – A unit did not consist of _one _plane. A bit lost at first, Glenn keyed his comm-link and radioed back to Reagan Air Force Base. "Control room, unknown unit on radar in sector oh-four-five. Confirm?"

--- --- ---

"We're not up here to screw off! This is a test flight! Get us the hell off radar!"

"I know, I know!"

"Hurry up, damn it! They're going to pick us up!"

--- --- ---

Silence followed Glenn's request for a few moments, leaving the two Thunderbolt pilots in a rather heightened state of mind. He admittedly could grow impatient when it was required that he check in first with command for this sort of thing, but he wagered that it was necessary, all the while.

"_Control to Element One – Radar interception officers deny presence of unit on radar. Check again_."

Glenn blinked, almost feeling insulted. Were they blind? "Check again? But I'm looking right at the damned—"

The dot suddenly blinked rapidly and disappeared.

"What in stir-fried hell?" was the first thing uttered over the radio, but Glenn didn't even hear it at first. He just sat there, staring at his radar for five seconds straight, genuinely unsure of the reality of what he'd just witnessed. The dot had just flickered and died, but the radar wasn't receiving the same fate – Tux's respective blip on the green screen was still as alive as ever. Either the unit had just been destroyed, or something else had happened, something Glenn couldn't immediately put his finger on.

"Control, the—the unit just disappeared." He did a lousy job of hiding the confusion from his voice. "It's totally disappeared from radar."

He detected an ounce of hesitation on the part of the radio operator back at the base. "_Stand-by, flight._"

More silence followed, a bit too much for Glenn to keep from growing anxious, but only moments after his relay, he finally received his go-ahead response. "_Element one, you are cleared to investigate this incident. Intercept and identify at once._"

With pleasure, Glenn couldn't help but think. "Roger that, Control. Let's hurry it up, Tux!"

The ferocious speed of the fighters only increased, as if they weren't moving quickly enough as it was – With consistent acceleration, the two Thunderbolts were soon blasting over the lands at well over a thousand miles an hour. Thankfully, they both had bothered to slip higher into the skies again, since blazing along just above the ground did little to help with people's heart levels. The last thing they needed to do was give the occupants of an old folks' home heart failure when a couple of sonic booms pounded into the structure. Nor did the immense sound blasts do any good for a person's brain, and Glenn had little desire to scramble somebody's innards in such a manner – Unless it were a Black Hole trooper, perhaps.

If they didn't get a move-on, though, the odd entity they were rushing to identify might have otherwise gotten away, and he sincerely didn't want that happening either. Through a large pack of clouds they raced, a move that allowed them to remain relatively out of sight but still gave them a good view of the world around them. The big fluffy old things weren't as annoyingly impenetrable as one might have thought. "Maintain visual scanning."

--- --- ---

"You dumb son of a bitch! They've picked us up! They're moving to intercept us!"

"Sor-REE! Geez lou-eez, get the yoke out of your ass!"

"Control, we've got incoming Orange Star fighters from the south! Tell that Judge and her flight to quit dickin' around near that damned convoy and get her over to us right this instant! If those Oranges see us and get away, the project is going to get totally blown into the open!"

--- --- ---

"I don't know, Glenn," was the rather unenthusiastic comment from Tuxedo Ral at one point as the two Orange Star fighters raced to catch the odd little entity, whatever it might have been. "It looks like whoever it was just dog-up and ran away. I reckon this here's a big ol' waste of fuel."

Glenn wondered how he was personally able to keep from sighing as loud as he almost did. "If you keep talking like that, you'll jinx us. Our luck is already changing as often as Spann Island's national status."

"Well, whaddya expect me to do? Sit up here and have me a donut and coffee or somethin' while the front lines are gettin' slammed? Don't give me that, Glenn; you want to be there just as much as I do."

"Of course I do," Glenn countered, "but if we're given a job, we need to see it through to its finish. Now quit whining."

"But it's stupid! We oughta be up there kickin' some ass, not around here. I guarantee you, Glenn, that we have _no chance _of running into anything that would even think about trying to take on a couple of handsome little devils like the two of--"

He suddenly quieted when he saw something on the horizon amidst the clouds. It was a barely noticeable black dot from where he was, but his keen eye caught wind of it, nonetheless. "Glenn, you see that?"

Glenn had already noticed it as well, and was trying to figure out what it was, primarily because it wasn't showing up on the radar. "Yeah. Keep your speed up and let's get a closer look."

The two orange-hued fighter jets crept ever nearer to the mystery in the skies, and it took almost an entire minute, but Glenn and his friend finally made enough progress to get a better visual identification of it. It certainly was another aircraft, but Glenn couldn't recognize its country of origin, nor did he even really know what kind of plane it was at all. It wasn't making any cringe-inducing moves to evade them, either, which confused him to the core. It just sped along in the sky, its steady path unwavering. "You take its left side, Tux, I'll stick to its starboard. Let's try and get a look into the cockpit."

"Roger that."

Easing close enough to the other plane for the pilots to consider hopping out of their own craft and trying to touch its wing, the Orange Star fighters slowly maneuvered into position next to the odd-looking mystery jet. Glenn took a moment to examine its outer hull for signs of lettering or flag identification, but there was nothing on it except some equally confusing bunches of numbers. Its all-black paint scheme made him a bit uncomfortable, though, and he couldn't help but fidget a bit in the aircraft's seat as he carefully piloted his fighter closer to the other plane's cockpit. The other vessel still made no signs of trying to get away, which let up some of his restlessness, but did nothing to quell his confusion or readiness.

When he glanced over at the plane's canopy, he realized it was so dark he couldn't even hope to get a glimpse into its inner kernel. He jabbed a thumb under his oxygen helmet's giant black visor, flipping it up to see if that would help, but there was no such luck. Lowering it again, he keyed the radio over to Tux. "You see anything in there?"

"Man, Glenn," the other fighter pilot's voice returned over the radio. Tux sounded equally lost on this anomaly. "This is about the damn weirdest thing my eyes have ever been glued at. I don't see any missiles on its undercarriage either. I can't even tell what this thing is for!"

Glenn hesitated, then glanced back at his radar. The aircraft forced to play monkey in the middle with the two Orange Star jets still hadn't shown up on it. His eyes hardened again as he looked back at its cockpit. "I think I can."

"_Element one, emergency warning!" _the radio suddenly shouted at them, tension in the operator's throat. "_Radars indicate incoming unidentified aircraft at high speeds from sector five-two-oh! ETA is thirty seconds!_"

"Oh, son of a bitch!" Tux's exasperated tone hissed.

Glenn's eyes swiveled towards the horizon. "Damn!"

Suddenly, without warning, the confusion-inducing plane in between them blasted down towards the planet about as sharply as either Orange Star pilot could dream of. Tux's line of sight shot down with it. "Holy cow, there he goes!"

"Forget him, Tux!" Glenn wasn't wasting any more time at all. He hurled his aircraft in the direction the enemy bandits were approaching from, activating both the fighter's afterburners and weapons system as he took a deep breath in preparation for what was about to happen. "My direction! I've got 'em on radar! Ten miles, nine hundred knots closure! Get ready!"

"On it!" The 207th Tactical Fighter Wing's second-in-command had already followed suit, pitching itself in the same direction with Glenn's craft. "I've got 'em too! I count four on radar!"

Glenn could already see them off in the distance, and he could tell they were coming in right at them – _fast. _"Get ready now, Tux!"

"I was _born _ready, Glenn." Tux quickly adjusted his oxygen helmet and mask's hold on his head for comfort. By then, the strange black plane had sped away from both their own crafts and attention, and now it was nothing more than a distant memory compared to what was thundering straight towards them like four ghost horsemen of death in the skies.

Almost quicker than he could realize, the enemy bandits were upon them – and then suddenly gone, having blasted clear over Glenn and his pal at a combined speed of seventeen hundred miles an hour. Their wake thundered against the Orange Star vessel hulls like an earthquake in the ionosphere, and Glenn whirled around in his seat, trying to catch where they were headed immediately after doing so, somehow ignoring the shivering of his aircraft. "They're goin' downtown, Tux, bring it around!"

"Got it!" The noise from Tuxedo Ral's fighter rippled against Glenn's as it broke away and began to swing around towards where the enemy bandits had disappeared to. Glenn was following suit in the opposite direction, as he struggled to get a good bead on them and what kind of craft they were. In the mere split second he had gotten an up-close look at them as they'd screamed past his plane, he swore he'd noticed that one of them was of a different design than the standard Black Hole fighters, and that got his blood pumping sooner than anything else could have dreamed of doing.

--- --- ---

From the seat of the ominous black Green Earth fighter's cockpit, a pair of cruel, morbid eyes latched on to the incoming Orange Star jets with a gimlet stare as the aircraft wheeled around to face them again. _So now two more sky stormers come to play in the world's largest sandbox._ _Careful, boys – this is a game of death._

"Thanks, Five! We couldn't have gotten out of there without your help!"

Judgment Five smirked under her oxygen mask while she keyed her radio to the speaker, her tone twice as black as the coloring on her aircraft. "It's nothing. Just be glad I didn't blow you apart myself for the both of you to save face in running rather than staying and fighting them off like you should."

"It's not our damned fault we can't help! This test flight means everything to Black Hole, and it could turn the tides of—"

"Save it for the _judge,_" she countered as one of the Orange Star fighters roared over her cockpit, switching the radio frequency off.

--- --- ---

_It's a Green Earth fighter, _Glenn realized as he looked back at the enemy bandit. Immediately he felt a wave of wrath flow through his veins. His home country's pride and honor was tarnished and spat upon by the very existence of this miserable defector, but that wasn't what really got his blood pressure rising. This was the same black fighter jet that had blown apart Bubba Boggs' plane back in the thunderous battle above Sgadd, and once he confirmed that, his hold on his jet's yoke tightened so dramatically he nearly split it in two.

Bubba could have still been within the Air Force's ranks if it weren't for the pilot in that very aircraft he was looking at. He could have still listened to Tux and Bubba argue good-naturedly about the age of the guy's beat-to-piss truck, which had since been left in the aforementioned pilot's care – though Tux hadn't really bothered fixing it up or even sought to get into its dastardly uncomfortable driver's seat at all – and he could have still listened to the big man's wise words while he shoved repulsive conglomerations of food and other unsightly products into his face. Bubba could still have flown with the rest of them in the skies.

Glenn brow furrowed so low it nearly obscured his vision. The identification of the mystery craft had just been the appetizer – now the entire menu would die. This would be the beginning of Judgment Squadron's doom – he would see to that to no end.

The Green Earth fighter was pitching itself up into the skies and twisting around until it was inverted to the ground and began to race back towards him, but Glenn had by then swung back again entirely again, and was racing to meet his lethal enemy head-on at a speed almost identical to the dogfight's initial pass.

--- --- ---

Judgment Five stared out her canopy at the incoming fighter, pupils dilating. _Want a joust, do you? Then kill me if you can, knight of the sky!_

Her smirk mutating into a grin, she activated the lock-on sequence with but a swift jolt of her thumb on the necessary yoke button, but suddenly realized that the distance was closing far too quickly for the craft's heads-up display to get a decent lock on the Orange Star fighter. Instead, she quickly switched over to the craft's gun system, but apparently the other fighter's ace had already decided upon using that in the first place because as soon as she did, she was being met with a massive torrent of gunfire headed her way, thick yellow streaks lighting up her path as tracer bullets sought to sink their fangs into their prey. "Bloody--!"

_PANG _went something against her hull, one of the heated rounds impacting against her right wing as she blasted up and out of the speeding fighter's flight path. In the following instant, her foe blew by entirely unscathed while she had already taken a hit in the struggle, and now she found herself both snorting fire and sweating cannonballs. _Little bastard! I'll tear you a new steed!_

--- --- ---

"BOOM!"

The explosion echoed through the skies, prompting Glenn to swing his head towards its birthplace as he raced away from the Green Earth fighter. One of the artificially-controlled bandits had just gotten a missile straight up its afterburners courtesy of Lt. Tuxedo Ral, who was already thundering away from its plummeting wreckage towards another one of the standard Black Hole jets. "One bandit down!"

Glenn's attention flew away from it back towards where his primary enemy raced along, the Green Earth fighter curving high up into the sky. Until it was down, he wouldn't allow himself to even think about going home. Either it was destined for a fiery one-way ticket to the ground or he was.

By then he had changed direction as well and was hurling back towards his foe, but the Green Earth fighter then completed its somersault, and instead of rampaging back at Glenn like it had done before, it screamed down towards the planet, allowing him to swivel his own fighter onto its back and race down after it. But the pilot was obviously a skilled one, and had already twisted around to again speed up to the sky. Glenn's stomach flip-flopped around, and he hissed to himself as he tried to follow suit.

The Green Earth fighters were a little slower and had less maneuverability than both Orange Star's and Blue Moon's, but if a pilot was good, then they could just as easily hold their own in a furball against enemy forces, and Glenn of all people knew this. It was a realization that hit him harder when he saw the enemy Judge forcing the Green Earth craft into a loop again, and while Glenn was already heading up in its wake, his speed was slowed a little compared to the bandit's, and that allowed it to spit gunfire at him as it came back down.

"Son of a—" Corkscrewing his plane around to give the other pilot a more wily target, he barely managed to catch sight of his foe's plane thundering down past him. Now it was time to return the favor.

Glenn hauled back on the yoke, somersaulting down at the ground himself, and as he whirled the craft around back on its belly, he saw the bandit was making a wide turn to port, having evened out its flight path. Glenn closed the distance as swiftly as he could, hurrying to intercept its course, and once he got within a good-enough range to make the weasel pay, his index finger's grip on the yoke's little red button tightened, and the following noise nearly deafened him for a moment.

Suddenly, the bandit began to twist around to turn as he showered it with ammo, prompting him to the do the same, but it did exactly what he hadn't quite been expecting – instead of turning to simply shove up to Glenn's left, it made a complete-half circle twist and raced off to his right. Glenn had little choice but to continue with his own turn, as he'd put all his effort into turning as well and trying to continue his chase would have been a lost cause.

What followed was an entire minute of the two fighters circling one another, speeding up, slowing down, all at intervals that would prompt one pilot to open gunfire on the other, but neither made any progress in the fight. Finally, Glenn got sick enough of this to throw his fighter back down at the planet when he saw he had an open chance to do so without immediate chance of getting blown apart, the gravitational forces shoving against his head with all their might as he ignited the afterburners and put an end to the little annoyance of a struggle. Naturally, the Green Earth fighter's course shifted to race after him.

By that time, Tux had eradicated Macro Land of another Black Hole fighter, calling out its death as any good pilot would have, and he was heading to finish off the final one when he saw the chase ensuing between Glenn and what might as well have been a sickle-wielding pursuer. Tux glanced at the final Black Hole fighter, noticing it was far enough away from the other three remaining jets to not induce any effect on them at the moment, and with a shake of his head and a mouthed _screw that _echoing from his lips, he sent his fighter onto its side, blasting down towards where the deathmatch of a chase was rapidly rising in speed and tension.

Glenn spared one glance back at the craft, and though his warning systems were sounding off, trying to get it through his skull that the enemy bandit was acquiring a lock on his vessel, he managed to ignore it and again pulled back on the stick in his hands, bringing the fighter back up and letting it face the clouds, an immense deal of speed now lifting its weight. The warning sounds disappeared, and he began to somersault again, trying to get a bead on the Judge.

Immediately he realized his mistake, as the Green Earth fighter had slowed dramatically upon witnessing his maneuver. Bright golden tracer rounds flew at and past him, missing the craft by what he felt must have been inches, and it made Glenn want to claw the bastard shooting at him apart piece by piece. "Damn it!"

As soon as the gunfire had started, though, it came to an abrupt finish. Glenn turned in his seat again to discover the enemy ace had broken off their pursuit, and he watched as Tuxedo Ral's fighter charged after it. Although he told himself he wouldn't earlier, Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader couldn't help but try and unsuccessfully suppress a smirk. "Thanks, Tux."

"No problem-o, Glenn," Tux chortled, nonetheless maintaining his flight course. Now they'd drill this Green Earth weasel right in the ass together, unless someone managed to screw up.

--- --- ---

The Orange Stars were certainly as or more tenacious than they'd been at Sgadd – Judgment Five had to give them that much. She swung her gloomy-looking craft into a funnily-sided loop downwards, fully expecting the enemy ace to chase after her, and she was correct in her presumptions. Down it swung after her, but she slowed her fighter again, causing the Orange Star jet to overshoot its mark and race past her. It compensated by switching directions and blowing off to her port side, but she had already swiveled her craft around to that direction upon the pass.

_Bad move, my friend!_

Judgment Five ratcheted her throttle up to its fullest capability, her dead-eye hooked on the enemy sky stormer. With a jab of her thumb, she activated the lock-on sequence, and the heads-up display began trying to latch onto it much as her line of sight had.

"Goodbye," she said aloud, watching the fighter race to avoid her wrath. Given its current direction and course, it would be hard-pressed to get away from her judgment now. Her index finger jabbed against the yoke's red trigger, and out into the skies sped a lanky missile, fire shooting from its backside as it stormed into the atmosphere at the Orange Star aircraft at a rate of speed far too quickly for anything to evade.

... Anything except this Orange Star ace, as she discovered to her ultimate amazement upon seeing it rapidly twist up and then suddenly downwards, the missile screaming past it so closely that it grazed the jet's flaming afterburners. "Wha--!"

--- --- ---

"Damn, Glenn, is that all he's got?" Tux wondered over the radio, an ear-to-ear grin standing ground on his entire face as he evened his craft out while the Green Earth fighter shot over him. "And I thought this was gonna be hard!"

And he chuckled loudly enough for Glenn to hear, who could only hold the same expression on his mug. "Atta boy, Tux!"

The enemy pilot had been so preoccupied with seeking to blast Tux out of the sky that they had apparently entirely forgotten Glenn Gordon for a few bare, crucial moments, and now he had gotten into a good position to do what he had so greatly desired since making contact with the bandits. Bullets ripped from his aircraft at the black Green Earth fighter, which whirled onto its spine swiftly and blazed towards the planet, but Glenn hung with it and continued firing until he started to consciously wonder when he'd run out of ammo. He laid down such a hail of gunfire on the enemy craft that it wasn't long until he got confirmation of some successful hits. Black smoke poured from the fighter's hull, and pieces of its wing flew into the atmosphere, disintegrating almost immediately after they detached themselves from the aircraft.

Glenn finally let up off the trigger and instantly switched over to the missile system, noticing a strange feeling that rushed through his nerves.

--- --- ---

"Bloody hell! Come on!" Judgment Five struggled with her craft's yoke, but it wasn't responding nearly as swiftly as it should have, and the Green Earth jet had lost much of its already sour maneuverability. She turned and watched in mute horror as a large piece of the wing folded and crumpled into the wind, but she continued battling the plane's course, even as it began to take on a mind of its own. It slowly swiveled upside down and began making a deadly course change towards Macro Land in this terror-inducing position, red instantly filling the corners of her vision and gravitational forces launching a full-scale assault against her senses.

"Come on!" she repeated, fighting mightily with the craft.

It didn't answer. It simply continued towards its destination, its breakneck speed increasing with every passing millisecond. Judgment Five's battle continued as the planet's size ballooned and encompassed the canopy. The intensity of the gravity forces turned into an utterly unstoppable powerhouse of strength.

_This can't be the end! I'm not finished yet!_

Her grip on the yoke faded as consciousness began to leave her. The missile warning system echoed through one ear and out the other.

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to stifle the approaching darkness, but only made it come quicker.

_Congratulations, knight._

--- --- ---

Glenn's finger applied the barest amount of pressure to the yoke's trigger – just enough to keep from pulling it.

He watched the Green Earth fighter sail down at the dirt awkwardly, taking it in like a long drink of water. Smoke poured into the sky in its wake like smog from a factory as more pieces of the damaged wing gave way to the furious force of gravity until finally the entire thing lost the battle and fluttered into the air away from its origin. The fighter began a stomach-turning spin as a result, whirling around like a tornado, and when Glenn thought the sight he was waiting for would never arrive, it slammed face-first into the planet, a tremendous fireball shattering its surroundings. After almost ten seconds, the explosive boom thundered through the atmosphere between the two Orange Star fighter jets.

The pilot had not ejected.

Glenn's eyes hung on to the fireball for another ten seconds, even as Tuxedo Ral fed him some information. "Looks like that did it! The last one's buggin' out and goin' home. Man, do we rock and roll or what, Glenn?"

Glenn didn't answer. He only watched the fires cling at the destroyed aircraft from his sky-high view.

In his fighter's cockpit, Tux blinked rapidly in confusion at the lack of enthusiasm on Glenn's part, but as he looked down at the burning wreckage himself, he slowly started to realize the importance of the silence.

There were no more communications between the two until after they turned to head home.

-----------------

Author Notes:

Most of you reading this are probably going, "hey, I don't recognize this story." That's because it's been on the back-burner for years, I'd by now wager. I'd like to apologize to anyone who's been wanting and waiting to read more, though I doubt there are many of you by now. I just hate to see something like this go unfinished, because I like these characters and want to see it to its end. I know _some _folks out there do too, as well. In any case, thanks for reading this ancient, decrepit old thing that still has dust all over it, and keep an eye out for more in case I decide to update within two-and-a-half year's time.


	13. Achmed

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

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**Storming Skies  
****By Rusty Dillingham  
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**---Mission Thirteen – Achmed---**

The gigantic newspaper crumpled amid Felipe Banon's powerhouse grip as he swiveled from page to page, unsuccessfully seeking out whatever article looked even remotely interesting to his otherwise bored eye, but try as he might to evade terrible opinions about politicians, the war, and the mistreatment of chickens by fast food companies, he drowned in their idiocy and worthlessness until he finally grew frustrated with them and grabbed the slim little comics section with a grumble and a huff or two. But even the strips were barely worth reading these days, as the conflict against Black Hole rendered every other subject the media usually spoke of completely and effortlessly devoid of life.

What hurt him most was the lack of a sports section, and sports period, at that. Thanks to the pricks who had thought it would be really fun to invade a country and spark a world war in doing so, nearly every single Orange Star sporting brand's season had been cancelled indefinitely, which aggravated him to absolutely no end. Of course, _ice skating _was still determined to stay alive somehow, but while Tristan Royal seemed ready to put up with it and had encouraged Fel to do the same recently, he'd been told by the intimidatingly large pilot in Fel's own sweet way that trying to piss a cactus out of his crotch would have been much more worthy of any great flying ace's time.

"God, I miss football season," he'd comment at some point or another to no one in particular.

So it was that he was sitting there in Reagan's notoriously large break room, struggling to comprehend a bad joke one of the strips puked out while Glenn and Tuxedo Ral were busy elsewhere on base, debriefing their invigorating sortie to a wide collection of high-ranking Orange Star officers, a collection that supposedly included Commanding Officer Andy himself, who had been en route to visit the base anyway for a reason of which Fel wasn't aware. Evidently, judging by what they'd said immediately upon landing, Glenn and Tux had run into not only trouble, but very mysterious trouble that eventually thought it best to call in some Black Hole birdies and make a bolt for it. From what they had described of the encounter, the strange aircraft of which they spoke was unlike anything they'd ever seen, but they were already well-aware of its origins by the time it had made a run for it.

Whatever the case, Banon wasn't very interested in such happenings anyway. All he knew was that Glenn and his idiot friend had made a blistering mistake by letting the aircraft survive its flight. He himself would have never taken a chance with the mystery craft, and would have promptly and happily blasted it to smithereens, given the war's situation. Damn the consequences. They could _eat _him for all he cared. He went up there in those hell-bent skies to survive before anything else. Questions could wait for the ground.

"Hey, Ick-med," he queried to Achmed Yahasititapen, who was sitting on the couch near his own seat, skimming away at some language-teaching book he was clearly having difficulty with. "Do you understand this joke?"

Achmed looked up from his book, noticed the confused expression on Fel's face, took one glance at the comic the guy was battling mightily to decipher, laughed for three seconds straight, then went back to what he was doing.

Fel glared at him for an even longer amount of time until he rapidly turned the page, hissing like a viper to himself.

It wasn't long until he was finished with whatever crappy crop of news the paper tried to feed him, and he tossed the thing aside onto a nearby table, not bothering to even think about folding it before doing so. As a result, half its innards floated down and took up napping spots all over the adjacent floor, but he didn't care. By then, he was rocking back and forth in his chair, even though the seat itself wasn't capable of doing such a thing – he just moved his body back and forth. Achmed didn't seem to care or even notice, nose-deep in his funny-looking book.

Eventually, Fel turned and stared out the window. Somehow, even in the silence, Achmed managed to notice this and glanced outside as well, as though expecting to see something that didn't ultimately disappoint him, which was what happened when he didn't see any dinosaurs eating people. At least, that's what Fel suspected the guy was hoping for. He wouldn't have minded seeing that himself, actually, when he thought about it.

"I'm just thinking," Fel explained quietly.

With an acknowledgement in the form of an instant-long raise of his brow, Achmed went back to his book.

Looking back out the window at a group of base personnel for no real reason, Fel crossed his arms and remained silent for the next few moments.

Then his gaze sailed back in the direction of the other fighter pilot, and he simply shook his head slightly as thoughts within became words. "You ever been locked up in the stockade?"

Achmed's head didn't necessarily rise back up to greet him, but his eyes traveled over to Fel's. Thunderbolt Squadron's highest kill-scorer continued speaking to the only person in the squadron he genuinely liked, looking past the quiet foreign pilot with a softened gaze. "It sure as hell isn't fun, especially when you share a room with a couple of Black Hole troops who smell like they haven't bathed in forever. I think they're still over there, too. Probably raising all kinds of shit with the MPs. They hate 'em."

He shook his head again. "Gordon did quite a number on those things. I don't know if he got any information out of them, but if he did, he'll probably keep it all to himself. He's been very fixated with this so-called Judgment Squadron. Knowing him, he'll probably want to take them all on himself one-by-one. Maybe even at the same damn time, all at once."

Fel hesitated, and then the barest hint of a smirk crept into one corner of his mouth as he placed a hand against his blued jaw, rubbing it. "I guess he did quite a number on _me,_ too."

Achmed just watched silently. Fel was quiet again for another moment, but then continued.

"I wasn't really expecting it to get that big. It got pretty nuts in there. He fought like a wild predator that didn't know it was supposed to be prey." Fel's line of sight drifted around as he reflected, but he took none of the visuals in. "I'm amazed I was able to take him down, now that I've looked back on it. He met me like a real son of a bitch. I started to wonder if I'd _have _to kill him to keep him from killing me. There really is no mercy in combat. Made me realize I didn't think that whole thing through."

The room was still with dead air for a time.

"Sometimes, well, I guess I don't really think a _lot_ of things through," he suddenly commented as he leaned further back into his seat, hardened gaze giving way even more. There was no one in the break room but he and the other pilot. "I know what I wanted to accomplish when I started that shit with him, but, I, uh..."

He was suddenly silent, but only for a moment. "... I wish I hadn't bothered, now that I've been sitting in a little room for the last few days with only my thoughts to keep me company. You ever have moments like that?"

He got a quick, blank-eyed blink in response.

"It's kind of funny when you think about it," Fel went on quietly, but the smirk was starting to show true form. "I guess we all do stupid shit like that. I don't know, maybe this war is taking away my common sense. That would figure, huh? It's all just crazy." Then he almost laughed aloud to the other pilot, his arms taking the opportunity to wave in the air to provide emphasis. "I mean, shit, look at it! We're fighting this _gigantic army_ that's trying to take over the whole bloody world and probably enslave us all to our deaths after they're done _trying_ to kill us, and all _my _fat ass can do is sit and try to figure out how I can get put into command of the group by cornering my own teammates in a dirty, stinking bathroom and bringing _them _to the verge of death _myself_."

Then he was quiet again. Every ounce of humor in what he had just said had died long before he'd finished speaking.

Achmed was fixing him with a gimlet stare, his dust-brown eyes squinting in acknowledgement of the other pilot's words.

Fel Banon stared into space, the muscles in his face hardening, and he said nothing more from then on.

It wasn't until nearly ten minutes later that he spat right onto the carpet floor with a noisy _humph _and rose from his seat with all the excitement of a corpse, heading off to a counter to make himself a cup of coffee. Somewhere inside that time, Achmed had quietly gone back to his book, until at one point he apparently realized he was holding it upside-down.

The break room's door swung open as Fel had just started to move towards it, and in strode Rainey Banker. At the moment, she was wearing a ragged brown jacket that supposedly had been issued to her grandfather back during an ancient war of old, or so she said. She seemed very attached to it and enjoyed wearing it whenever she had the chance to show it off, but on its back laid the patched-on image of an interestingly-dressed young women resting her curvy body against what looked like a Yellow Comet fighter, though it was actually an Orange Star aircraft from way back in the stone age, and thus it was rendered the choice point of humor whenever jabs were made at Banker's expense.

As soon as she saw Fel heading for the door while she entered, she slid out of his way with what sounded like a growl, a mutter, a hiss, or maybe even all three at the same time. "_Excuse _you."

Fel took one look at her, and in no way even tried to suppress his sniggering smirk. "Nice jacket. Funny how the thing has aged better than your face."

Rainey clearly decided that hurrying away from him before she performed dental surgery on him with her first was a brighter idea than anything else, and once Fel left the room, she found herself easing over towards Achmed, who still hadn't figured out which side on his book was supposed to be _up._ She gave him a pleasant smile, having always found him to be a much better slice of company than the viciously irritating individual she had just had the disgust of running into, even though he didn't offer much in the return-conversation department. "Hi, Ackmed, how's it going?"

Achmed sighed.

The squadron's only female pilot was already starting to take Fel's old seat, but just before she sat down, Rainey spotted the mess the guy had made. "What's with all the newspapers on the floor? There's a recycle bin right over there."

And so, grumbling all the while, she set to work picking up every inch of paper Fel Banon had practically thrown to the ground. "Why don't people clean up after themselves? Is that so much to ask? God, as if things aren't difficult enough around here, now I'm picking up after everyone. I'll bet Tux did this. He did, didn't he? I swear he did this yesterday, too. That man is single-handedly the absolute messiest _thing_ I have ever met in my entire life."

She didn't notice that Achmed had placed his book aside and was resting his head upon his hand, eyes toward the ceiling. "Well, at least they didn't throw away the comics. Do you like comics, Ackmed? My brother tried to make a living drawing them when we were back in high school, but none of them were really any good. I think he called it Dilbart, if I recall correctly. I wonder how he's doing. I haven't talked to him in so long. I should call him up soon to see how he is, shouldn't I? I think I will tonight."

Nor did she catch the groan that came from the seat next to her. "So what are you up to? Just waiting to go up into the sky again like the rest of us? I am too, now. I went into town for a while. I got to see one of my friends who I haven't seen in a really long time. I think you would like her a lot. But then, I'm not sure if _she'd_ like _you,_ now that I think about it. I guess we'll have to set you two up when this war ends. You're not married, are you? I could never tell. You don't have a ring on your finger. I know people from Yellow Comet don't wear rings on their fingers when they get married. I'm not really sure why that is. I know because I had a summer job at a law firm one time, and there was this handsome guy from Yellow Comet who worked there, but, well, actually, I don't want to talk about that. Let's talk about something else."

By then Achmed was leaning halfway to the side in his seat, hands over his head while grinding his teeth so loudly some pilots outside mistook it for anti-air gunfire, all during a moment where Rainey finally rose from the floor to go and toss the papers in the less-than-beloved recycle bin that never really got any use from anyone on the base besides herself. "I can't wait to get back up into the air again. I mean, I know we've been going on patrols, but those are just so boring. I want to be on the front lines taking the fight to Black Hole. They'll probably put us back into some big action, eventually. Really, they can't just leave us back here. We're the ones who took out a Black Cannon and that big satellite dish on the train. Do you remember that? I wonder if we'll run into anything like that again. Hey, speaking of that incident, remember the _Crazy Wolf _guy Tux kept blabbering on about? He really thought that guy was cool, huh? I wonder how he's doing. I hope he's alright. The poor guy looked like he'd been through hell, huh? I guess he probably sort of was, you know? I wonder what sort of mission he went on. I'll bet it was really exciting."

Just when it seemed her full-scale assault on the world record for the amount of time a person had ever droned on and on and on without taking a breath would never end, she suddenly whirled around to face him. "What do you think?"

Achmed smiled politely and nodded from the stiff, upright position he had assumed a fraction of an instant before she'd turned back towards him.

Slowly stepping back over to the seat near the couch, she let herself drop back like a building coming down, plopping into it with a colossal breath of air escaping her lungs upon impact, immediately recoiling a tad upon impact at how low it drooped towards the ground thanks to the fellow who had most recently used it. "Oop--! Sheesh, what happened to this thing?"

A barely audible sigh penetrated the airspace between the two in response.

Rainey took a moment to unzip her jacket, which seemed to startle Achmed a tad, likely because she was wearing a small, simple white shirt under its leather confines. She didn't notice his slight fluster, though. "I'm so bored."

She was quiet for a few seconds until she looked back towards her current conversationalist, who was struggling to get back into his book – either that or he was trying to figure out which way he was supposed to be reading it. "I want back into the sky so bad. Maybe just to get us all off the ground and working as a team again. The last few days here have been so miserable, I don't know how _anyone_ can stand it."

With a long gaze at the room's thin gray carpet, she quickly began to look visibly tired, and she herself knew that she'd want to fall asleep if she happened to notice herself sitting there looking that way, darkness and bags under her normally bright eyes. "I get this impending sense of doom these days. I'm worried things will break up because of guys like Fel. I'm not really worried about Zodo anymore, though."

A glance went her way from the silent individual sitting near her, but she didn't notice. "Don't tell anyone, but I just get frightened about everything that happens here. Sometimes I almost wish I were in a different squadron. I considered issuing a transfer request to go over to Sunset this morning, but I really don't want to. I don't know any of the pilots in that squadron, anyway, and I'm already too attached to everyone—well, almost everyone here."

Then her eyes traveled up to his before they skimmed the view outside the window. "I guess maybe I'm getting _too _attached to some of them."

Achmed was returning the look by then. Rainey rubbed her hands together out of some habit she'd always had when she thought to herself too much. It was a habit she'd had as a kid that had lasted all the way into maturity, but some of an adult's childhood never died, seeking instead to shelter within. She found it was in no way a different case with herself. "I really admire Glenn and Tux. They're real warriors when it comes to fighting up there. I mean, they might not have as many kills as Fel, but they sure handle themselves a lot better, don't you think so?"

After Achmed eventually realized she was waiting for a response and hurriedly nodded out of politeness, she continued, letting herself lean back in the uncomfortable chair Fel had practically damaged by trying to make it support his bulk. "I swear, these guys are gonna be the death of me. I just don't know how what to think anymore. All I know is that I can't wait for this... _goddamn war to end!_"

And thus, with that said, Achmed Yahasititapen had the joy of becoming the only person on the _entire planet _to _ever _hear Rainey Banker use a word worse than _poo. _He accepted this decoration by cringing and waiting for her to calm down.

"They say that after a time, war begins to make people feel invincible." She shook her head with a grimace. "Not me. I feel like death is standing there, staring me right in the face whenever I wake up and open my eyes in the morning, and it clings to the back of my neck even when we're not up in combat. It's always lurking around, now. But it's nowhere near as bad as when there's an enemy fighter bearing down on you from head-on."

Looking back at him, she looked ready to quit talking, yet she couldn't help but carry on. "I'm sure you know what happens when we let the enemy get one step ahead of us. When I graduated from flight school, I never thought I'd be so terrified of that missile alert system."

Silence followed in the seconds after she admitted her fears.

"I'm gonna go get some rest." Rainey allowed herself to smile at the other pilot, who struggled to return the expression. "I should probably admire you, too, huh? You don't let any of this crap get _you _down. I've never heard you complain once about any of it. I find that very commendable."

It took a few seconds for Achmed's grin to turn genuine, and he went a little red in the face, knowing full well she was showering him with praise. Whether he felt he deserved it or not, admiration coming from Rainey Banker was something _everyone _at Reagan Air Force Base coveted. It wasn't long after that until Rainey rose from her seat and started to head off, placing a hand on his shoulder and rubbing it as thanks for the open ears he had lended her. All he could do was give a _you're welcome _nod as the female ace sauntered away and made for the room's exit door, but even during her escape, he was already reaching for his confusing little book again, grabbing it and flipping back to the page he'd been at before all the interruptions...

... right when Glenn Gordon walked in. "Hey, guys, how's it going?"

Achmed groaned exasperatedly and tossed the book away, very aware of Glenn's favorite seat in the room.

"Hi, Glenn," Rainey greeted as she left. "How'd debriefing go?"

"Boring," he responded, rubbing his eyelids. He still hadn't gotten any rest since returning to the ground after the mission the commanders had all been viciously interested in, much to his chagrin, but that was how it usually was anyway upon task completion. He was relatively used to such annoyances by that time, and whining about it wasn't on his _to-do _list lately. "I don't want to talk about it right now. I'll assemble everyone and fill you guys in on what happened later, okay? I just want a break."

"Alright," she accepted, not looking too interested in what had gone on anyway. "See you later."

"Yeah, later." Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader took a second or five to watch Rainey take her leave, then he swiveled on a heel and made tracks for the empty seat next to the couch Achmed still sat in, being certain to give the foreigner a big old pat on the shoulder as he got there. "Hiya, buddy, how's it going?"

Achmed just sighed for the ten zillionth time that afternoon.

"Not too good, huh? I know how that— _Holy frickin--!_" A ragingly startled Glenn found himself dropping _far _too close to the ground upon leaping back into Fel and Rainey's old chair. The cavernous crater giant old Fel Banon had made in its seat was that huge. "Who the hell's been sittin' in this thing, a rhinoceros?"

Achmed didn't answer. He just stared straight ahead at the wall, brow furrowed, hands clenched tightly against the couch.

Glenn didn't notice. Then, to make matters all the more better, he started _talking about it right now. _"Debriefing went alright, I guess. Andy was there. You know him? I thought he'd talk about what happened a while ago on that train he and the _Crazy Wolf _guy were on, since we sort of blew it up with them on it, but he didn't seem interested in anything but that funky plane we saw. Tux and I gave 'em all the low-down, though, and I suppose that satisfied them for now."

Then he scoffed loudly, and the muscles in Achmed's face seemed to convulse in the instant he did so. "Of course, the little knucklehead _did _decide to bring up frickin' Fel Banon, and that fight we got into. I can't believe _I'm _the one getting all the backlash about that nonsense. Can you? It's insane."

With a grimace, Glenn's arms folded together and he only shook his head, at a total loss for the entire situation. "And now that we took down one of Judgment Squadron's very own, they'll probably come at us like hell rising up through the ground. This is just great, isn't it? This is _exactly _what I signed up for when I re-enlisted. I've never had so much fun in my life. If any more fun gets shoved down my throat, I'm gonna turn into a damn cartoon character. I might as well just go outside, find a tree, string up a hanging rope, and get everything over with."

At that point, he realized exactly how much he was complaining, and though Achmed didn't seem to mind because he hadn't said anything, Glenn decided to put a halt to all that before the foreigner grabbed a phone and called him a _waaambulance. _"Sorry."

Achmed turned his astronomically pain-stricken head towards Glenn and just gave a weak-looking nod.

Clenching his hands together and cracking his knuckles – an old habit from his childhood – Glenn watched a gnat buzz around his face annoyingly, but he didn't care or feel well enough to do anything about it. "I know everyone wants to know about Judgment Squadron, but the truth is, I didn't get any good information from that Black Hole trooper the other day. He told me about their flight leader, and how he used to be one of Orange Star's highest-ranked pilots, but from what the trooper said, he apparently grew disgusted with the lack of recognition, and, well, then he did what he did. Sounds like he wanted to be another Eagle, and was mocked for it. Some folks just went with him, and Black Hole recruited other top pilots from the other countries."

Now he stared into space, remembering the trooper's words as he'd listened intently, taking it all in. If necessary, he would have chucked some of his other memories out to make room for all the information he hoped he'd get, but it ended up not happening. "He didn't know much about the other pilots, to. I asked specifically about the one known as _Seven, _but he had no info on him. He said they even had a woman or two in the squadron, but he wasn't certain of their origins. It's frustrating. Everyone is expecting me to fill them with all sorts of details on how we can beat these bastards, and I know I'm just going to end up disappointing them all. I'm really not looking forward to the looks that'll be on their faces. It makes me feel like a terrible excuse for a leader."

Achmed listened, simply watching and letting Glenn vent.

Just taking one look at the other pilot sort of made Glenn want to shut up where he sat, but he didn't mention anything of the sort. Achmed was a good listener anyway. In fact, he was one of the _best _listeners Glenn Gordon had _ever _met, and knowing that cued a smile to the flight leader's face. "Enough about all that, though. What are you up to?"

His noggin cocked to one side as his eyes strode to the book with the funny-looking foreign letters that Glenn initially mistook for kindergartener scribblings on its hardback cover. The other pilot paused for a moment, then saw what Glenn was looking at, and he reclaimed possession of the book and showed it to Thunderbolt Squadron's in-flight captain. Taking it in hand, the Green Earth-born Lieutenant skimmed through it, and somehow managed to do a good job of shadowing the fact that he had absolutely no idea which direction the thing was supposed to be held. "So this is a novel? Or—Oh, it's a language book. Trying to learn our language, huh? Having any luck?"

Achmed just gazed at him as always.

"Guess not."

There came a short moment of silence between the two. Then, Glenn looked thoughtful for a few seconds, until he finally held the book up towards his funny friend and pointed an index finger at it. "Book."

Achmed blinked.

"_Book,_" Glenn repeated, his finger jabbing towards the object on stage for emphasis.

No reaction whatsoever.

Glenn leaned a little bit further in his seat, and said in the absolute slowest and punctuated way ever thought possible: "_BO-O-O-O-O-OK._"

This time, he was successful in getting a response. Now Achmed was staring at Glenn as though he were looking at some kind of retarded animal.

So much for that, Glenn thought, lowering his hands as he turned and tried to shake off the ensuing wave of embarrassment flooding through him. After giving back the interesting piece of reading to the quiet foreigner, he slumped back into the seat, again letting his palms meet his eyes, a flood of sleepiness coursing through his face. Now that he had time to think about it, he _was _incredibly tired. Naturally, Tux wasn't, and had promptly headed off after debriefing to fill his belly with whatever food the base's resident gateway to hell – also known as the cafeteria, in some parts of the world – would try and poison him with, but Glenn wasn't too fond of the cooking Reagan had to offer, so he'd simply wandered over to the break room after he'd finally finished filling everyone remotely important in on the day's happenings.

Sitting there for another moment, Glenn was quiet, but then he watched his friend for a few seconds until he allowed himself to smile. "You know, you're a pretty damn good listener."

Achmed didn't really acknowledge his flight leader's words, but he didn't look away from Glenn, either.

"I'll bet you've always had to deal with people using you as a wall. You probably hear all sorts of things people wouldn't normally say to anyone else's face." Glenn let an instant-long chuckle escape his lungs. "That's gotta get pretty old. I know you can't be too happy listening to me or whoever else rant on like a bunch of drama-stricken wimps, but, just the same..."

He paused, and Achmed could only watch him.

"... _Thank you._"

The look Achmed was giving him suddenly seemed to sharpen ever so slightly when he said that. Glenn wasn't certain why, but thought little of it.

With a small sigh of his own, he rose from the uncomfortable seat, realizing he was in great need of a bed instead, and he stretched his muscles out, eliciting pops from aching joints within. "Anyway, I'm gonna get a nap in before I fill everyone in on what happened, if you don't mind. I feel like I've been awake for a week. See you later, buddy. Keep an ear open in case, since I suspect we're gonna be back in the air together as a whole sooner than later. And don't talk so much, you'll kill the muscles in your jaw."

That said, Glenn began to creak along and make for the door, but just after he'd started to raise sails and split, his astute hearing picked up something from the couch not far from where he was.

"Have a good day."

Glenn stopped dead in his tracks and turned his body a bit to gawk at Achmed, eyebrows raised but with a smirk on his face. The other ace just looked back until he began to flip through his book again. Glenn's smirk widened.

"Thanks, friend."

Achmed's eyes rose up to greet his, and then he grinned too.

--- --- ---

The dark room's lack of illumination did nothing to raise any spirits in its confines. Black Hole was taking heavy blows in its bid for domination, and while this annoyed their commanders to no end whatsoever, their real frustration often lay directed towards the working flesh of their peons. Many in Black Hole's ranks had little use for ethics or codes of conduct, prompting commanding officers to typically distribute punishment as they themselves saw fit. Unfortunately, at that point, most punishments for failure came by the hands of the allied nations, except in some cases.

One of those cases stood in the center of the dark room, watching the Black Hole communications officers relay messages to troops in the field, bring up coordinates for strikes, listen in to enemy signals they'd zeroed in on, and so on. Judgment One held little interest in such happenings, though – he had _far _more important things to worry about, especially considering their failure to eradicate the enemy squadron their group had baited into fighting over Sgadd. He'd been expecting terrible backlash for this grievous error, but Hawke hadn't appeared very intent on destroying what he had created simply because the first engagement hadn't been entirely successful.

However, what Judgment One _did _know was that his stoic commanding officer was already becoming impatient with their lack of progress. While Judgment Squadron's purpose was to inflict immense damage on elite enemy forces and important strike sites, their slowing success against this particular Orange Star squadron that had already caused ridiculous amounts of pain to Black Hole's cause was rendering Hawke more than a little annoyed, though he'd never readily admit it. Judgment One had a relatively good eye towards character, and now he was well aware that any more 'mistakes' in the field would likely cost him dearly.

That much became apparent when a very imposing figure entered the room. The Black Hole trooper standing next to the door stiffened its posture instantaneously and gave a firm, steadfast salute when the new visitor came striding into its field of view. Judgment One swiveled and performed the same gesture for his commanding officer as the tall, broad-shouldered individual marched towards the table in the middle of the room, resting his arms against it and refusing to make eye contact with the fighter pilot.

"You are too slow to act," commanding officer Hawke commented after a moment of uncomfortable silence, jumping straight to the point. "This Orange Star squadron has single-handedly annihilated one of our Black Cannons, _and _our Death Ray. I have tasked you with its elimination and _yet it lives._"

He did not sound particularly pleased at the moment. Judgment One took a deep breath and stood at attention as his supreme leader continued.

"My patience with you is _not _infinite. The combined might of the enemy seeks to cripple us at this very moment. I have a very great deal of business to attend to in this conflict, and making certain you're doing your job correctly should not be one of them. Yet here I stand, deciding what I am to do in regards to your nigh-worthlessness. Your credentials listed you as one of the finest pilots I could find, but I'm beginning to think I'd have more success in getting rid of this nuisance by simply walking into their base on-foot _by myself _and _swinging at them with a fly swatter._"

"Yes, my lord," was all Judgment One could utter, feeling his throat clog up with anxiety. A frostbiting shiver penetrated his core when Hawke's gaze met his.

"Is that all you can say?" the notoriously intimidating man queried, his stone-walled features as antarctic as ever. "You're as pitiful a sight as you were when I contracted you for this assignment. Being in your very presence degrades the quality of my life. I would better spend my time talking to a dog."

The freezing kernel within Judgment One suddenly lost its momentum and gave way to the heat of anger, but he showed no reaction to Hawke's intentionally humiliating commentary at his expense.

"I could have given this task to _anyone, _but I chose you. To see you take this honor and use it to blow your nose with does _not _fill me with the sort of gratitude you may be expecting." Hawke's piercing, frightening gaze bore right into the pilot's eyes, and maybe even deeper. "I'm tempted to transfer power of your squadron to some sort of handicapped farm animal. I suspect I would see better results upon doing so."

A flash of atomic fury completely destroyed whatever chills Judgment One suffered from, and some of his irritation began to pound through his iron curtain and showed on his facial structure. Hawke somehow caught wind of his subordinate's wrath long before this had even happened, and that angered One even more. "Growing upset with the truth, are you? You look more like a seething child than a flying ace. I'm afraid I don't have any more honor or commendations to give you, so you'll have to find something else to wipe your eyes with."

His bloodshot eyes nearly as red as his face, Judgment One's fists balled so tightly his knuckles didn't turn white – they nearly went supernova. He had _never _before received such belittling criticism, and had never expected it to be in so callous and fault-finding a manner.

This didn't go unnoticed either. Hawke's entire body faced One's smaller frame, and before the pilot knew it, he was suddenly much closer to the massive commanding officer than he ever would have preferred.

"Do you not understand what the penalty for your failure and misery would be if it were Flak or Lash standing before you rather than I?"

Judgment One said nothing, his eyes biting at Hawke with fear and hatred.

"I did not think so. To dispose of you would be a waste of my time and effort. In that regard, I'm rather fond of allowing second chances, so you need not feel concern for your well-being. If I were you, I'd be more worried about that squadron you _still _haven't taken care of. The burning wrath they must feel towards your little attack on that city and the elimination of one of their wingmates must certainly be weighing on their minds, wouldn't you think?"

Still, the pilot uttered not a word, and this _almost_ seemed to draw the faintest hint of a derisive smirk upon Hawke's expression, but he cast it away, merely snorting a disrespectful breath of air into One's face as he turned towards the table once again. "Bear in mind, we will _not _be having this sort of conversation again. You are only one of many tools I have at my disposal, and any number of them could very easily take your place. But let's see if we can keep that from happening, shall we?"

"Yes, my lord," One repeated in a much more polished manner than before, his voice having hardened with intensity in the last few moments.

Hawke's vision flew at him again, and he nodded his head once ever so slightly. "Good. I'd hate to be disappointed _again _by your nonexistent foresight in the face of this enemy. Then again, I find them to be a much more commendable force to be reckoned with than you, so perhaps your eventual loss would not be the most terrible thing I've ever been witness to."

Judgment One's mouth curled from rage, and only the unending nightmare that would be the inevitable consequences of such actions kept him from unhooking his own leash upon the larger man.

Suddenly, a Black Hole soldier burst into the room, swinging the door open so fast he unknowingly sent it slamming straight into the trooper standing at attention, who collapsed awkwardly off to one side. Nobody noticed, or in Hawke's case, cared.

"_SIRS!_" the newcomer shouted chaotically, holding a single sheet of paper in its hand. "Totally sorry for the interruption, but we just received an urgent message from a recon unit in the field! May I read it off to you? Uh, please? It's kind of slightly very important."

Only letting the stern stare he gave One last a moment more, Hawke faced the trooper with a much more interested look in his eye than he'd ever have held for Judgment Squadron's flight leader, whose tightened facial features only intensified slightly with vexation as he ignored the others, seething quietly to himself.

"Do so," the Black Hole commanding officer allowed.

"Yes, sir, with gusto, sir." The trooper held the sheet up to reading view and commenced speaking: "_Arr-ee-one-four-nine to command – service patrol halted upon witnessing aerial contact involving experimental Black Hole stealth fighter and enemy Orange Star fighter units in sector two-six-oh. Black Hole forces including Black Judgment Five and AI-fighter escorts engaged hostile enemy fighter units. Experimental fighter successfully evaded subsequent combat. Losses inflicted include Black Judgment Five and two of three AI-fighter escorts. Hostile fighters escaped. Remains of pilot recovered. Destroyed remnants of Black Judgment aircraft. Over."_

Judgment One had already whirled around and was fixing the speaking soldier with the most horrid look possible on his face when the report was completed. For a moment, the alien glanced back and forth, as though not entirely certain it should have been standing in the same room with the pilot at the moment.

"Um," it eventually stated quietly, "sorry."

"_Pfeh!_" Hawke spat, swiveling around, unable to suppress a glare directed towards a reeling Judgment One. "You useless idiots. Some squadron of death and doom you're turning out to be."

Judgment One's hands caught each side of his forehead, the news morphing his expression back and forth with shock, anger, sadness, and denial. He had not personally known Five, as none of the squadron members knew much of any others' personal lives, not even their real names, but it was still an informative explosion that rocked his mind and heart. "But—But _how!!?_ Bloody hell, Five was one of our best, and-- I don't believe this! What did she do wrong!?"

"Um, well," the trooper continued, "you know, sir, not that it's really any of my business, but, I guess maybe that, um, well, possibly, Orange Star's best is better?"

Judgment One just stared at it.

The trooper stared back.

"_I gotta go._" Then it bolted back out the door, smoke rising from its tracks.

Hawke's attention was fixated on a map in the center of the table, completely losing all sense of interest in Judgment One's pulsating emotions. One held his hands against its edge to simply keep himself from collapsing from the stinging shock that coursed through his nerves. After a few moments of silence, his face tightened up even more than before, and he slammed a fist down upon the unfortunate table's solid wood with every ounce of energy he had. "_DAMNATION!!!_"

The troopers at the communications consoles jumped with the bang and scream's violence. Blinking, Hawke's head craned a bit at the pilot's, somehow managing to do this in an incredibly insulting and sarcastic way, as though he had only heard something as silently annoying as a fly buzzing around.

"I don't believe this _at all,_" One continued, wrapping his unscrupulous hands upon the edge of the table and nearly breaking off entire chunks of it as a result. "This can't be happening. I'll make them rue the day they did this to us."

"Much like how you made them _rue _the day you messed up in eliminating them over Sgadd?" his commanding officer queried in a cutting tone, giving a light shake of his head afterwards. "You'll never succeed if you seek to frustrate them into carelessness again. Apparently, you need a new strategy – One that _won't _see your epitaphs scorching the skies in the immediate aftermath. The remaining seven of you must take them by their hearts."

Despite his own sizzling resentment towards his supreme leader, Judgment One gave him an inspecting look, unsure of the statement's meaning. "Is that a clever little way of saying you'll destroy us from the inside out if we fail again, or are you trying to tell me something else?"

"Both," Hawke said, an inch of pleasantness in his response. He ignored the increasing tension in One's face as he carried on. "Their old foe, Kailaff Boldigh, had a preferred strategy where he would eliminate the designated squadron leader upon identifying them, whereafter he would bait them into frustration and confusion as a result. But I don't want you to do that. What I had in mind—"

"You know," One suddenly interrupted, courageously uninterested in Hawke's reaction to doing such a thing, "Kailaff Boldigh is _dead. _Every part of him burned the atmosphere over Fate's Point when that squadron dealt with him and your sorry Black Cannon toy."

Hawke mercifully looked past One's patronizing commentary. "The man may be dead, but his legacy lives. Even within your squadron."

"What?" One asked, suddenly confused.

"Forget it. Let me put it in terms you can fathom." Hawke's voice lowered ever so slightly, and he leaned a bit closer towards the pilot, perhaps for emphasis, or to knowingly put just a bit more fear through his bones. He succeeded. "Are you aware of the squadron's home base?"

Judgment One's eyes flew to the wall, and after a moment, he shrugged his shoulders. "There are a few possibilities open, but we're relatively certain they're in the vicinity of Sgadd. There's an air force base not too far away from—"

Then he suddenly stopped speaking, growing ultimately quiet as he stared up into his fearsome leader's terrible gaze.

Hawke just watched him silently, and then after nearly five seconds, smiled.

-----------------

Author Notes:

Another new chapter down. Unbelievable, I know. I remember someone wanting a better look at Achmed, so I thought I'd focus on everyone's favorite weird foreign guy for a bit. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed, and R+R, or whatever you want to do. And thanks to everyone who's already took the time to review (and thanks for keeping an eye out, red!) I greatly appreciate it. Keep an eye out.


	14. The Battle of Reagan

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Fourteen – The Battle of Reagan---**

The radar officer's eyes swept over the adjacent green panel's display, gaze narrowing at its inky neon coloring in the darkness of the Reagan Air Force Base's primary control room. A conglomeration of distinctive dots on the screen had caught his attention, sending it away from where Sunset Squadron's respective position happened to be in the course of their mission to patrol the perimeter between the base and Fate's Point. In the two days following Thunderbolt Squadron's downing of a Judgment aircraft, there had been little – almost _no _activity of which to speak on the part of combat for the base's resident tactical eagle-eyes, and this anomaly on the radar was the first interesting thing that the radar officer had seen ever since.

Brow furrowing, he inspected the blips further, searching for signs of Orange Star fighter identification tags, but only three of the dots carried with them a respective military number. There were a large number of other aircraft showing up by them, ones that the officer had little chance to identify correctly. The group was showing up well past the front lines, at that, and their path currently looked to take them a bit too close to Reagan for complete comfort. Pivoting in his uncomfortable old seat, the officer gestured to Technical Sergeant Arty Gates, the chief control room operator of the base. "Sergeant?"

Gates was just finishing a long swig of his coffee when the officer had beckoned. "Hmm?"

"Unidentifiable units on radar in formation with ID'd fighters," the officer informed him. Gates had already hurried over to inspect the radar as soon as the first word had hit his ears, but looked equally lost upon witnessing this oddity for himself. The officer had rather hoped that wouldn't have been the case, but not all wishes came true. "Shall I open a broad-spectrum channel for communications?"

"Do it." Gates took a place in the empty chair beside the officer and placed a headset over his cranium, waiting for the officer to open the feed. When he'd done so, the control room chief navigated the headset's microphone closer to his mouth, and began to speak.

--- --- ---

Deep somewhere inside the brown overcast clouds of the night's sky, the warplanes thundered forward, flanked by allies on all sides. Seven distinctive fighters led their path: Four Orange Stars, one Blue Mooner, one Green Earther, and one little Yellow Comet warbird that struggled to keep formation, but nonetheless looked as ready to reap death and destruction on the enemy as the other aircraft. Judgment One turned in his cockpit at the front of the group, examining its interior. They looked almost naked without Five's unfortunate Green Earth fighter in there somewhere, but he was adaptable to the battlefield, an arena that was _never _static in its presentation. He'd live.

"_Sector one-oh-one element, this is Orange Star Reagan Air Force Base control,_" a new, unfamiliar voice broke in over the radio, prompting One to turn back around and grin. "_You are in direct vicinity of unknown units. Identify yourselves and current task._"

Judgment One's finger keyed his radio, having informed the entire fleet to let him do the talking before they'd departed, and had reiterated it when they'd stopped for fuel at a Black Hole settlement hidden well within Orange Star territory. "This is Captain William Apple of the 298th Tactical Fighter Wing, Union Squadron out of Dawn Air Force Base. We are on an emergency sortie, escorting damaged allied aircraft to safer haven within the country. Our destination is Roosevelt Air Force Base and we will bypass Reagan by seven miles. Please stand down any anti-air measures to insure safe passage, over."

There was some fixed hesitation on the other side of the communications line, but One was a patient fellow. "_Your request is granted, element. Continue course – and good luck. Out._"

Judgment One killed the connection, and only smiled further. The fools were opening themselves completely. It was a bloody good thing that Black Hole hadn't tampered with the renegade Orange Star fighters' internal computer structure, as that would have eradicated it of its resident identification signature, and without it, they'd never have fooled the foe. Orange Star would have seen them coming from a mile away, but now the surprise of a rain of fire was all they'd need to finish their mission.

"William _Apple?_" a laughing Judgment Two heckled from his four o'clock. "That's just gorgeous. Please tell me that's your real name, sir."

"Actually, I think it's Seven's." One's grin flashed towards the Blue Moon fighter off in the corner of the echelon formation.

Judgment Seven did not seem interested in dignifying that with a response.

With a chuckle, their flight captain knelt his gaze back towards the dark horizon, looking past the brown cover of the clouds. Lights sprinkled the darkness of the planet here and there, but that wouldn't be anything compared to the air force base they'd be looking at through their canopies soon enough once they completed their mission. "Maintain heading and visual scanning, gentlemen. I'll find out the position of the bombers, and get us linked up with them. Try not to wet your seats in anticipation -- the fun is only just beginning."

That said, the fighters and their thirteen escorts of Black Hole warplanes carried in into the night, their dark thunder echoing across the countryside.

--- --- ---

Sergeant Gates carefully placed his headset onto the console and turned to discover a perplexed expression staring into his face via the radio control officer. He just huffed and smirked at the younger fellow's rigid posture. "I'm not shutting down our anti-air measures just because some _Apple _hotshot who says he's coming out of Dawn is scared we'll think it's cute to take some potshots at them for target practice. Get Heartbreak Squadron up in the air and have them patrol the base perimeters by a radius of one mile, and take us to yellow alert."

"What about Thunderbolt Squadron?" the radio officer queried, his demeanor still not quite back to any sort of relaxed state.

"Nah, not them. They already went up for a patrol this morning," Gates told him. "Besides, Commander Beauregard wants to keep them in top shape in case they all get sent up to the front lines soon. They don't need any more losses, like what happened over Sgadd. They lost three good planes, and a pilot didn't get out of one of them."

"So I've heard. You'd think those guys would get some medals or something by now." The radio officer adjusted his headset and began issuing the requested commands, but found himself moving a bit quicker to do so than usual for some reason.

Gates let the young man do his job as he rose from the seat and made tracks back to his own chair, plopping down into it with a _poomf _and a sigh. But only seconds later, as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table where he did his own work, he realized his hands were sweating, and hurriedly wiped them on his khakis before one of the other officers might have noticed.

He paused for a moment, watching the staff carry out their duties. A pair of fingers rose to meet his temples as he thought to himself.

"Jackson."

The officer glanced over his shoulder towards Gates. "Sir?"

There was no response – at least until the Sergeant exhaled a big breath of air. "Put Thunderbolt Squadron on stand-by alert status."

"Yes-sir." And the officer instantly set to work.

--- --- ---

Glenn Gordon zipped the top of his dark orange flight g-suit up to his neck, examining himself in the mirror inside his locker while his wingmates got prepped for potential fly-time next to him. The jumpsuit, while not as incredibly attractive as he would have preferred, was a new model made by Orange Star engineers that expounded some of the old suit's lesser qualities and made the strain of high-level gravitational forces just a bit easier on the wearer, and Glenn had accepted it with as much hope as he'd been able to muster that it would give the squadron – and Orange Star's air force as a whole – just enough of an edge over their foes to finish the war off once and for all. He wasn't particularly fond of its color, though. Despite how it was a darkened shade of Orange Star's national color and was meant to instill patriotism in its pilots, he still felt like he'd look more suited to being picked from an orange tree than anything else, now.

Tux wasn't interested in marrying it, himself. "I swear, man, this thing is so damn ugly, it'd make old Fel look like a million bucks when his fat ass squeezes into it. Hey, Glenn, how long we gotta wear these damned things, anyhow?"

"Only until school lets out," Glenn mumbled sarcastically, not paying a large amount of attention to Tux's whining as he tied the laces to his black flight boots.

_Come on, Tux, they ain't so dang bad. I'm sure your momma'd say they look good on you after you two got back from your prom._

Glenn hesitated, then realized his thoughts carried not his own voice, but Bubba Boggs'. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, shadowing his sudden unhappiness well from the others. Bubba's killer might have been dead, but Thunderbolt Squadron still seemed so empty compared to other units. There was nothing he could do until top brass figured out what to do about that, however.

Tristan Royal actually seemed to like the stupid-looking things, though, as he was busy preening himself for some dumb reason – making sure his hair looked right, specifically. Glenn had joked that he was going to start looking like a civilian if he grew it too long, but he also silently admitted that the kid was the only one who looked halfway decent wearing something as unappealing as the new suits, although when he glanced at Rainey, he second-guessed himself on that one. Since all the lockers were nestled closely to one another, he easily heard a query Tristan made to Zodo Gallow, whose locker was unfortunate enough to be placed right in the middle of everyone else's. "Hey, if we're wearing orange suits, does that mean Blue Moon wears blue jumpsuits themselves?"

Gallow ignored him. Glenn silently shook his head but didn't turn around, only further preparing himself in case they'd have to go upstairs with those knuckleheads from Heartbreak Squadron, which was busy encircling Reagan Air Force Base.

"Hello?" Tristan said not-so-quietly. When the fellow pilot still didn't respond, the squadron's youngest flyer spat to himself, turning back to his locker. "Fine, whatever, screw you too."

Glenn almost turned on instinct to reprimand Tristan for that little comment, but caught himself midway. Why should he have cared about it? Unfortunately, although he wasn't up for letting loose the long arm of the law, the quip got Gallow's attention by a landslide, and the Blue Mooner's head swiveled so quickly that Glenn nearly heard the _woosh _it made. "Just because I'm in this squadron doesn't mean I have to put up with your asinine questions. Go look in an encyclopedia."

"_Asinine?_" Tristan dropped his comb into his locker and slammed it shut, creating a resounding _BANG _that echoed through the room and caused the nearby Rainey Banker to jump in surprise, though she wisely chose not to intervene. "Lemme tell you what's asinine, blue – Having to stand next to your ass in this locker room every time we have to go flying. There's nothing worse than a Blue Mooner who hasn't showered for a month, and that'd be _all _of them."

"Speak for yourself," the elder pilot mumbled, concentrating more on finishing his preparations than the annoying little idiot standing next to him.

"That's a good one," Royal continued, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "Do they teach all you Blue Mooners that one when you reach high school?"

Now it was time to say something. As much as he'd have liked to _not _get in the middle of this nonsense, it was happening ten feet away, and Tux was fixing him with a gimlet stare that basically told him if he didn't do something to quell this conversation, someone's fist probably would, so finally, Glenn turned around and let a hand rise towards the normally reserved Tristan. "Kid, that's enough, alright—"

Gallow's hard-edged tone interrupted him as the foreign pilot smirked derisively at the kid. "All this coming from the one with the fewest kills on the team. Let me know when you shoot down something _other _than a helpless transport copter, and I'll take you seriously."

Rainey and Achmed exchanged a glance and began to increase the distance between themselves and the arguing duo. Fel Banon simply smirked at the exchange and finished prepping himself, removing his oxygen helmet and mask from his locker, which also happened to be the one that had a massive dent in it from where Glenn had slammed the door into its owners head not a great time earlier. Tux just sighed grievously, clearly becoming more than fed up with the political parrying going on, and Glenn couldn't have felt any different if he'd tried. They had _much _more important things to worry about.

"And this coming from a Blue Mooner," Tristan laid into him, youthful frustration overpowering war-born maturity. "Do you miss flying those Blue Moon fighters of yours? The ones we dominated in the last war? You know, the ones that got blown up by our aces? Or do you miss flying for Black Hole at Fate's Point like the traitor you are?"

Gallow's eyes bore straight into Tristan's. Glenn should have known this would have happened someday – Tristan was young and less-than-experienced in the world's intricate workings, much like any dumbbell kid just out of high school, but they were in a war here, and he didn't appreciate this attitude. Neither did anyone else at the moment, judging by the looks on their faces. "Tristan, be quiet and get ready."

"It isn't my fault he's a prick. Is everyone in Blue Moon like you? Or are they just big and fat like Olaf?"

"Stop talking" Gallow hissed in the most threatening tone any of them had ever heard him use, wrath suddenly bubbling to life on his surface. He might have normally been as composed better than any of them in a tough situation, but evidently, he wasn't in the mood for any of this crap either today.

"Talking is all you Blue Mooners are good at. You can't do anything to help us win this war, so you have to screw it up for everyone else like the frosty, mud-licking traitors you are."

By then Gallow had turned all the way around to face Tristan. Anger flashed through his eyes; his hands convulsed into fists. "You'd better _shut the hell up._"

Glenn and the others couldn't believe what they were seeing. The young pilot scoffed loudly and stepped a bit too close to Gallow for everyone's comfort and nerves to appreciate. "You say you'd like to see me shoot something down?"

"Tristan," Rainey pleaded, "just leave him alone, for crying out loud!"

"Second Lieutenant Royal," Glenn blared in what wasn't a quiet tone as he pointed an index finger at the kid, wondering what the hell was the matter with him all of a sudden but more than ready to walk over there and slap the taste out of his mouth, "you will _knock_ that kindergartener shit off this _instant._"

Tristan was so close to Gallow, their noses nearly shared the same air tunnels. "How about if we go up there and I save us all a bunch of trouble and just shoot _your _ass down, you mud-licking—"

_**WHAM **_went Zodo Gallow's powerful hands into Tristan's chest, fingers attaining a voracious grip on the orange flightsuit, and he slammed the kid right into the adjacent locker with enough force to nearly send the whole row of lockers toppling over while a collection of simultaneous gasps inhaled around them. "_Don't _you threaten me, you little_ son of a whore!_ You talk like that to me or anyone else here again and I'll tear your entire _colon inside-out! _You _understand!?_"

Silence enveloped the room. Hanging there in Gallow's hold, Tristan Royal looked as though he were encased in a mile-wide block of ice, predatory eyes sending a stinging bolt through his nerves. Glenn was completely stunned by the scene.

Gallow dropped the kid where he stood, and turned back to his locker silently. All Tristan could do was stand there, and in only a moment, he went as red-faced as a tomato. Glenn and the others could simply watch.

The world around them suddenly shuddered. Every single member of Thunderbolt Squadron froze and blinked at its strangely violent subtlety.

And then, before they could even start to properly react, there was another tremble, but this one touched their very cores and brought their bones to a deathly chill, and the accompanying sound was louder than anything they had ever heard in their lives.

--- --- ---

Judgment One hauled back on his yoke and swiveled around in his fighter's seat, examining the chaos and destruction he had just reaped on one of the target base's resident buildings, allowing himself to grin for only a bare moment. The fools hadn't even sounded their alarms yet, and he had already personally dealt a crippling blow to his enemies, but the fun was only just getting started. The four bombers that had accompanied Judgment Squadron had yet to make their own play of the cards, and then, eradicating the base of its soul would be as simple as stepping on a fleet of ants. It was almost _too _simple and easy to the point where it wasn't even fun at all.

He keyed his comlink and glanced around as he began to level out, watching the other members of his ebony-hued squadron make a bombing run on the sizable base's runway. Fireballs and heated shards of asphalt lit up the night and darkness of the flat facility's fields, a sight that did nothing but make him hungry for more. "Don't forget to target their control towers. The bombers don't have the kind of accuracy capable of doing so. Two and Three, begin targeting any and all vehicles you see. Prioritize anything that can hurt us."

Then, something else lit up the night – something that wasn't created by Black Hole's hands. Tracer rounds soared into the overcast skies, the base's anti-aircraft fire trying to latch onto them and knock them from their very wings. But One ignored them; they were merely gnats in a beehive.

Suddenly, Judgment Six's familiar tone scratched through the confines of the communication link. "_Ho-ly guacamole! _They've already got fighters in the air! Check your radars!"

Judgment Two didn't believe his ears. "What in bloody blue blazes? The little pricks couldn't have already taken off, could they?"

Judgment One blinked and shot his gaze towards the inky green blobs that met his vision with a challenge. A poisonous grin captured his visage, and he began to wheel his aircraft towards the collection of enemy fighters. "Apparently, our friends downstairs aren't as simple-minded as we might have expected, gentlemen. Is it the squadron with the lightning bolt insignias?"

"I don't think so. I'm counting eight of them. There are only seven fighters in the lightning bolt squadron."

"Heh!" Judgment One cracked at that memory for an instant as more explosions tore through the base below, red and orange flashes teasing his peripheral vision. "And to think that people actually expect Orange Star to _win _this war for everyone. They can't even fill up one of their elite fighting units. It's a sad state of affairs."

"With all due respect, sir," a voice that One quickly and irritatingly recognized as being Judgment Seven's uttered over the radio, "if we're not careful, this fighting unit won't _need _to be filled up. If I may remind of you Five's fate?"

"Keep your reminders to yourself, my _associate_." Judgment One's eyes glazed over the sleek black aircraft that hailed from Blue Moon's air force. "And stay out of my way. That's an order."

There was no response for at least three seconds. "Yes-sir."

Neither of them would continue the discussion. Competitiveness thundering through his pupils, One ratcheted his fighter's throttle up to full, sending his aircraft straight towards the closing Orange Star bogeys.

His grin had long since faded.

--- --- ---

"_GO, GO, __**GO! **__Move _it, pilots, _GO, GET A MOVE ON! TRIPLE-TIME IT __**NOW!**__"_

Ancient-looking overhead lightbulbs flickered on and off with every deep, successive boom that shook the world and sent dirt crumpling down onto the racing group of pilots and base personnel as they shot down the path's claustrophobia-inducing confines. The underground tunnel hooked directly from Reagan's primary building into each of her hangars in the event of such a situation as they all faced, and Glenn couldn't have been more thankful for its construction, but he was a bit too busy to acknowledge that at the moment. Officers raced by Thunderbolt Squadron and yelled at them to pick up their footing speed, as they were the only team that needed to get its butt up in the skies to help out Heartbreak Squadron.

"Pick it up, Ya-horse-tit-pen! You too, Royal! Get the hell moving, we've got people getting killed up there!"

Glenn felt sweat glaze over his face, but he didn't even notice. He only concentrated on reaching the end of the path as instantaneously as possible, panting and reaching for more breath than he'd ever thought he'd require. Fel Banon was already a mile ahead of the rest of the group, but he was the fittest member of the team despite his girth, and that would have made Glenn envious if he weren't already so preoccupied with just catching up.

"_**BOOM!!!**_"

That one ripped through Glenn more than any of the others he'd been victim to thus far, but it didn't slow his gait. The string of lightbulbs lining the ceiling died out entirely, and emergency power flowed through the base's veins, illuminating the tunnel in a bloody hue that admittedly scared Glenn and only made him feel more alarmed.

Finally they reached a door and piled through it, looking more like a pack of rats struggling to get through the same mousehole all at once, but within seconds they were already ascending the nearby stairway, and found themselves inside their squadron's giant hangar where their birds of prey rested and almost begged aloud to get into the skies to take the fight to Black Hole. They _also _found themselves a bit too close to the already hellish battle for comfort, and the explosions and blasts reached deafening levels as soon as they emerged from the tunnel, even with the hangar doors still closed.

"GET TO YOUR PLANES _PRONTO!!_" base personnel screamed at them. Glenn and his squadron obliged immediately.

In an instant he was already at his own aircraft. The poor, orange-hued thing had been with him for the entire duration of the war, and he would have hated to see it go down without even the smallest of struggles, so he had made a mental note some time ago to never let such a thing happen. He was more than aware of that even now as he clamored into the cockpit with the assistance of hangar staff, struggling to do a million things at once. On his helmet and mask went, down the canopy closed, _snap _went the belts around his body. He was moving faster than he ever had in pre-flight inspection, but he didn't even realize it.

He glanced over at the aircraft situated to his right – Tuxedo Ral's. Its pilot had moved just as quickly in getting ready as he had, even amidst the terrible sounds of war right on their doorstep, and as he looked farther across the hangar, he could see the five other pilots already in their respective fighters, racing to get outside behind him. He held no doubt that they were as anxious to get moving as he was, but it wouldn't do them a lot of good to get themselves thrown around all over the cockpit because they forgot to buckle their belts.

Keying his comlink on as his vessel's engines began to power up noisily, Glenn tried to keep his voice as calm and collected as possible – and he failed miserably. "Everyone just take your time and don't make any mistakes. We'll be up there soon enough."

"Roger that, Glenn," Tux's voice scratched into his eardrums, in addition to everyone else's. "Y'all could learn a lesson from this fella, he's so cool under pressure. Atta boy, Glenn."

Glenn almost grinned until he realized his second-in-command was being sarcastic.

"Gordon," Fel Banon suddenly rumbled over the connection as Glenn watched staff race around his fighter and get it ready to go. "Watch your ass on the way out of here. We don't need you getting blown sky-high as soon as you stick your nose past the doors."

Glenn looked down the long hangar at Fel Banon's aircraft, grimacing. "Thank you, Banon. I feel _much_ better."

Then he paused for a moment, eyeing Banon's fighter further. The man had previously opened up a six-pack of Kick-Your-Ass on him, and now he was being told by the guy to be careful? What had this Banon done with the real one?

He chose not to think about it at that moment, though. He glanced ahead and realized that the hangar staff was racing towards the giant double-doors of the building, and he felt his nerves tense up at the sight. He was about to be the first of the squadron to exit the frying pan and leap head-first into the volcano, and for a bare moment, he almost felt inclined to jump straight through the canopy and tear off in no particular direction screaming his head off, but unfortunately, such wishes of the imagination were only fantasy. Besides, that might not have set the best example for his team anyway.

The base staff grabbed at the hangar's doors, and Glenn carefully began to roll his fighter forward in anticipation. Sweat beaded down his face and bundled at the bottom of his oxygen mask; his hands clenched tightly around the yoke; he felt his nerves tense up even further. But he could say nothing – he only took a deep, anxiety-driven breath, and told himself it might not have been as bad outside as he previously thought.

And then the doors rumbled open.

Flashes of light forced him to squint – Anti-air gunfire thundering up towards the out-of-sight bandits nestled somewhere amidst the cloudy dark sky inhabited almost every section of the base in droves. The wreckage of four unidentifiable planes already littered the grassy field next to the primary runway, fires tickling their remains. Another one sailed straight into the dirt near the secondary runway and exploded in a massive red ball to Glenn's horror. Bombs blew apart concrete and Macro Land alike, sending fireclouds larger than any Glenn had before seen scorching toward the skies. The red-hot exhaust of missiles and golden tracer rounds high above the base caught his peripheral vision and only added to the already terrible sight. Almost as gruesome as the conflict was the utterly horrendous _noise. _He heard it all and could do nothing but take it in – The deafening, continuous blasts of anti-air rounds sparking into the night, the echoing scream of fighter jets, close-proximity blasts from the ground, and if he listened hard, he thought he even heard the unforgettable bee swarm sound of bombers overhead, even there in his cockpit with noise debilitators muffling everything as best they could.

It was almost a harsher sight than Fate's Point over a month earlier. Glenn was so incredibly unsettled by what his eyes told him that he almost didn't hear the control tower operators yelling into his ears. At first they sounded distant, tinny, but then he was more aware of them than anything else.

"_Warning! 207th, control tower! Enemy bandits have hit the primary runway! Take off from secondary runway; Heartbreak Squadron is covering you! Again: Take off from secondary runway!_"

Beautiful. With any luck, that wasn't half of Heartbreak Squadron laying out in the field next to what was left of their main runway. Glenn ratcheted the throttle up further and eased the aircraft out of the hangar entirely, trying to keep one eye on where he was going and the other on the bloodthirsty fangs of the sky above.

--- --- ---

"We have activity at the hangars," Judgment Four announced, his black Yellow Comet fighter nestled away from the rest of the furball to pull recon while the others had all the fun. It was a lousy job, but someone had to do it, and as Judgment One wasn't particularly fond of Yellow Comet, he'd gotten the shortest straw of the bunch. Nevermind the fact that Judgment Four was good enough of a pilot to actually lead the entire bunch, but that made One feel even more vulgarity towards the fellow ace. "Orange Star fighters in view, preparing for take-off."

"It _must _be them, now!" Judgment Two hissed like a viper ready to strike its weakling prey. "These wimps we're fighting couldn't shoot down a gang of flies at a trashcan. I say we pick them off now while they're helpless!"

"Now, now," their flight leader said in a tone that was the complete opposite's of Two's, "we don't want to get ahead of ourselves. That wouldn't be sporting of us, would it?"

"_WHAT!!?_" Two gassed, and Judgment One could almost make out the man's eyes springing out of his head even so far away from him in the battle. "Commander Hawke is _only _going to **MURDER **us if we fail again! Now isn't the time to be a good, friendly neighbor!"

"I'm not afraid of that man." One didn't notice it, but his hands suddenly clenched tighter around his yoke. "We were contracted by Black Hole to eliminate this squadron as _I _see fit. That's not the way I play my games. Instead, let us remind our friends down there of exactly who they're dealing with now."

It was a moment before someone – Judgment Two – finally responded. "Yes-sir. We'll follow and perform as you command."

"Very good." Judgment One watched the hordes of artificially-piloted Black Hole escort fighters they had brought along pester the Orange Star aircraft dogging them, simply out of some cruelty-driven sense of humor on his part. "Rejoin my wing and stay tight with me. I'm going downtown!"

"Yes-sir!" Two repeated, and now he was excited. _I'm going to enjoy this!_

--- --- ---

The line of orange fighter jets was still making its trip to the secondary runway, but they couldn't have moved any quicker for Glenn. First in line to the fire, he was doing his best to keep the speed up to the point where he was still in control of the craft, but he knew the others hated having to be in a position that _wasn't _the lead. If only there were some way to simply have fighters take off vertically – they would have already been up there, slashing at the hornets that threatened them. Maybe someday, though.

Glenn's fighter rumbled past the asphalt road leading to the base's primary runway as gunfire and explosions tore apart the planet around him, its pilot's eyes sweeping across its destruction. The enemy had hit it like there were no tomorrow, and he held little doubt that the squadron would never be seeing use from it again, but he found it curious that they hadn't struck the other take-off strip by that time. Perhaps they were simply too busy with Heartbreak Squadron, but he wasn't taking any chances. He wouldn't stick around to find out how long it took them to get around to taking care of the only remaining runway that the fighters were capable of taking off from, and neither should the rest of the Thunderbolts. "Keep the pace up, folks! We don't want to get caught with our heads between our legs down here."

"Speak for yourself, Glenny," Tux gassed from the fighter rolling along behind their flight leader's. "Man, this sucks. I swear, this just couldn't be any worse—"

"_BANDITS COMING IN AT US!_" Tristan screamed into the radio connection. "One-pair diving from nine o'clock!"

Glenn's head shot over to one side of the canopy, and he was horrified to discover that the kid wasn't screwing with them. Two black Orange Star fighters were speeding past the hurricane of anti-air fire and 20mm tracer rounds, screaming right in towards the helpless line of Thunderbolts poking along towards their only remaining runway. Glenn's entire face went completely white, not only at the realization that he was about to get blown to pieces, but also at the understanding of exactly who was attacking them. "Oh, mother of—"

"Glenn," Tux yelled, "what do we do? What do we do!?"

"We—hold on—" Glenn's mind raced through the options in the milliseconds he had left to decide. The incoming bandits' engines echoed through his fighter's hull and grew progressively louder with each passing instant. "Get— Control, get them out of there! _Get them away!!_"

The tracers trying to catch the bandits were still failing to meet their mark. "_SOMEBODY GET THEM OUT OF THERE!_"

Surface-to-air missiles blasted from Macro Land into the skies at the pair. The bandits simply _outran them. _"_COME ON!!_"

"GLENN, GET OUT OF THERE!" Rainey screamed as even more anti-air fire stretched to the skies to no result. "WE GOTTA MOVE!"

Similar screams grasped the radio waves, but Glenn didn't even hear them. His hand was already gripping the throttle and he threatened to snap the whole thing straight from its bindings, but he couldn't go any faster without driving the whole plane straight onto the grassy fields around Reagan. At first he hoped for some miracle that would blow the bandits out of the air, but no good—they were _there_. Glenn almost felt his heart stop as his pupils tracked the enemy fighters, and it seemed as though they weren't going to blow him apart but instead slam right into them like kamikazes. He never noticed the cold sweat drenching his uniform, and he couldn't even buckle down in the face of his fate. He could do nothing but watch.

He almost closed his eyes, but realized he didn't even have time left to do that. _Oh, God._

"_**BOOM!**_"

The soundwave rippled through his aircraft as though it were in the center of a nine-point-oh richter scale earthquake. Glenn felt the entire world shudder around him, and he could have sworn he felt some fillings ping-ponging around inside his jaw at one point. But contrary to what he initially thought, he had _not _just been turned into a smoldering pile of ash courtesy of their enemies. Blinking in utter confusion, he swiveled his head to the other side of the canopy and locked his vision onto a sight that was still in the middle of surprising him – the bandits were racing skyward, back up towards the overcast clouds, having cleared the line of Thunderbolts by no more than five meters.

"Holy—" he panted, still trying to find out where his breath and heartbeat had ran off to, "holy shit."

"Those dirty _bastards!_" Fel Banon roared, furious at this insult. "They're just _TOYING _with us!"

Gallow offered his own input. "It's alright, Gordon. They're simply trying to scare us and throw our focus off."

_Well, they freaking succeeded, _Glenn didn't have to say. Only now did he take notice of his cold sweat and how terrified he suddenly felt. He had _never _come so close to standing around boredly in the afterlife before. The only reason he was even still sitting there in his aircraft's cockpit was by the good grace of the enemy pilots, and once he understood that, he barely even knew what to feel. A whirlwind-like flurry of rage, embarrassment, and morbid horror flooded through his bones, but he could never have readily admitted it.

"Everyone alright?" he finally queried as he eased his fighter onto the second runway, still struggling to calm himself down as he kept one eye on the pair of bandits, who were rejoining the dogfight with Heartbreak Squadron amidst the flashes and explosions in the skies.

"Looks like it, unless any of y'all had yourselves a stroke just now." Tux was _not _helping ease Glenn's composure. "Let's get the hell up there, folks! I've got about six missiles with some Black Hole names on their butts."

Glenn wasn't entirely certain why, but when Tuxedo Ral said that, he found himself grinning, and the steel was suddenly returning to his nerves. "I copy that, Tux! Control tower, Gordon requesting take-off!"

"_Thunderbolt leader, you are cleared for take-off. Get up there and keep safe!_"

_Will do, _Glenn thought to himself as he pointed his fighter's nose down the runway, ratcheting the throttle up to its highest level and kicking the afterburners in, getting slammed back in his seat. _At least, I'll try._

--- --- ---

"Well, so much for your little plan. Here they come." Judgment Two didn't sound entirely impressed at the result of the fun he and his flight leader had just had at the lightning bolt squadron's expense, but that was to be expected. "_Hmph._"

"Good. Four, rejoin the formation." Judgment One glanced towards the rising squadron, and then at the other Orange Star fighters they had already been dogging. They were more than ready to call it quits, with most of the remaining ones either smoking or otherwise doomed anyway, once they finished off the newcomers. "Choose your opponents carefully, gentlemen. You're good enough to do this in your sleep against anyone else, but stay sharp here. I'm switching AI-fighter targeting to handle the rest of the base in assisting the bombers. All Judgment Squadron wing members, you are cleared to engage incoming hostile bogeys. Destroy _every last one_ of these Orange Star cowards. Make them _suffer._"

"_Yes-sir! _Commencing attack!"

--- --- ---

Glenn tipped his fighter onto its wing, easing out and charging head-on towards the remaining Heartbreak Squadron wingmembers and their predators, tightening his grip around the yoke as hard as he could. Even amid the brown overcast skies of the night, he could easily make out the deathly black paintjobs of the enemy squadron that terrorized them all. Somehow, Judgment Squadron had managed to discover their resident base, and that got his blood going, but now that they were there, Glenn wasn't going to just let these boys walk all over he and his friends. He wanted more than anyone to get the fight going as soon as possible, and it was now or never. "Everyone stay on me! Keep steady!"

The seven Thunderbolt Squadron fighters blazed towards their foes, but then it became morbidly apparent that the enemy team thought it best to pull the very same maneuver, and Glenn quickly found himself next to seven other fighter jets screaming head-on at a group that was speeding at _them _at a combined speed of over a thousand miles an hour with anti-air fire filling their visions. Glenn suddenly felt the iron hardening his nerves fade, and his blood ran cold at the sight. "Get ready now! Get some shots off!"

"Oh, Lord a'mighty," Tux uttered, appalled at the approaching sight.

And as soon as Glenn started to activate his missile system, a terrible, consistent beeping rang throughout his cockpit. They were one step ahead of him already. _Damn it!_

But he ignored the sound and somehow clenched the yoke even tighter, accelerating further and trying to catch one of the incoming Judges on his heads-up display. The system waned and wavered around the bandits, but he realized they were going to meet each other far too quickly for comfort. In an instant he was thumbing the yoke's weapons system again. "Switch to guns!"

The missile alert sound vanished as soon as he did that. Judgment Squadron had taken notice of the closure rate as well and had done the same thing as the Thunderbolts _again. _"_GET READY TO BREAK!_"

And almost before he could even realize it in every terrifying, passing instant, the Judges were _there. _Tracer rounds tore at he and his friends, and Glenn blasted a stream of golden 20mm cannon rounds into the night. Fireballs of ammunition illuminated the sky, their golden flashes impacting against the surface of the clouds high above the furball. For a moment, the exchange of gunfire registered brighter than the battle as a whole.

"_BREAK!!_" Glenn slammed the yoke back into his stomach as hard as he could, feeling the force of gravity weigh him down and send blood rushing towards the bottom of his body. He knew at once that he hadn't hit anything, but he was uncertain as to whether or not he was in the clear as soon as he pitched his aircraft higher into the sky. The collective blasts of seven other fighter jets rippled against his hull, and it nearly took his breath away more violently than take-off did. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the rest of the Thunderbolts juke every possible way imaginable as the black-hued bandits roared past all of them at far too close a margin to keep his heart alive. It was a horrible sight to behold.

The Thunderbolts shot away from the closely-intertwined pass and tried to collect themselves.

"They got my left wing! She's alright, still flyin'!" It was Tristan.

"I think one nicked my fuselage," Gallow said next, though much more hurried than usual. "No failures, I'm fine."

"I caught a round on my tail! She's good to go!" Then there was Tux.

"I think one of those fricking sons of fricks _flipped me off!_" Finally it was a flabbergasted Fel Banon, who utterly abhorred not being allowed to use his favorite word in the air. Commander Beauregard had gotten on him some time ago about that sort of thing, and while he frequently forgot his composure anyway, he'd still been good about it – mostly. How he'd ever even seen the gesture at the rate of speed they were all going was beyond Glenn, but that would be one of life's mysteries.

Glenn swung his fighter onto its side again and pulled hard on the joystick, bringing the aircraft back towards where the bandits had blown off to. "Everyone spread out and don't get in too deep! You remember what happened last time with these guys!"

He didn't get an answer. Every inch of Thunderbolt Squadron was more than aware of the past encounter, and he silently chastised himself for such a gaffe. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Casting an uneasy stare across the sky towards their foes, Glenn found himself racing into the path of the enemy squadron's only Yellow Comet fighter while the rest of the planes managed to stretch out from one another. At first, he was uncertain of what to make of such a spectacle. Yellow Comet fighter planes were ancient in design compared to the other superpowers of the world, and while they had distinct upgrades that made them take to the skies better than their earlier predecessors and brought them closer to the line that put them up against modern warbirds, just the sight of this enemy plane buzzing towards the state-of-the-art jet fighter made Glenn want to laugh derisively at it and kick back right there in his cockpit lazily.

And then it opened fire on him.

"_Holy--!_" Glenn hurled his aircraft onto its belly, showing it to the enemy bandit, forcing himself towards the ground. A storm of tracer rounds from the Yellow Comet fighter's various 20mm Vulcan cannons streamed across the atmosphere past Glenn's fighter, and even so far away from the other craft, he could easily hear their deep, resounding blasts. It was almost like standing next to a fleet of machine guns. "Geez!"

Much to his surprise, however, the gunfire didn't let up in the least, because the Yellow Comet fighter decided to pull down right on after him. Glenn hauled back on the yoke and twisted onto his side again, hoping to merely out-turn the enemy bandit, but then he realized that was a bad idea. Since the Yellow Comet fighters could achieve a much lower speed than Orange Star's, he was only giving the other pilot a decent target to trap-shoot, and in the instant after he'd begun making his turn, Glenn slapped the fighter back around in the other direction.

But more gunfire filled his vision, the venomous booms echoing across the battle. Instinctively, he pitched his aircraft into a twisting turn that would hopefully have sent him sailing underneath the other fighter, and was rewarded by hearing a trio of _PINGs _glisten off his fuselage.

_This FREAKing GUY in a FREAKing YELLOW COMET fighter is KICKING my FREAKing __**ASS!!! **_a suddenly frustrated and dumbstruck Glenn Gordon realized, foaming at the mouth as he listened to the enemy plane rumble by, the other pilot attempting to get towards his six o'clock again. Kicking in his afterburners, Glenn opted to play his trump card. His fighter went thundering forward at a much faster speed than the enemy craft could achieve, and in seconds, he had simply outran the bandit.

Then he slowed rapidly and brought the craft around again, pointing his nose back in the opposite direction from whence he'd come. Perfect – the pilot had done exactly what he'd wanted by racing on after him, getting every possible ounce of speed out of his plane. Glenn increased his own velocity again, making a beeline straight for the incoming bandit in a scene very much similar to what had just been attempted only moments earlier in the dogfight. That speed wouldn't be so easily lost compared to what Glenn was capable of, but the enemy bogey didn't budge from its course in the least. Glenn would have commended the pilot for being so gutsy, if he weren't busy trying to shoot him down, and if he weren't so pissed off at him, at that.

As the distance closed, Glenn hurriedly eased a bit to the side, as though to simply blow past the bandit as he'd done before, but then utilized his rudder to pitch the nose in the direction of the bogey's path while still maintaining his original direction. Naturally, he completely forgot that the enemy pilot was just as capable of pulling this maneuver and probably had experience in doing so, and as Glenn began to spit bullets at the Yellow Comet vessel, so too did the other ace. _Crap!_

Tracers played tag, stretching from each aircraft to the other. Glenn only let it last an instant, hurrying to put in his share of the pot while there was an opportunity to do so, but he was floored by the level of fire the other fighter was able to put up. Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader angrily discovered in the instant they exchanged fireballs that the Yellow Comet aircraft grabbed much more of the share than he managed, but he was relieved when he heard none of the enemy rounds make contact with his own hull. They had been simply moving too fast for the bullets to catch their targets.

Glenn looked ahead and plotted his next move – and as soon as he'd come up with it, bright yellow streaks disrupted his concentration, the rounds sailing past his fighter. Glenn caught his breath in surprise and pitched his aircraft over to try and evade again only to see his oncoming path being riddled with bullets immediately afterwards, and he suddenly came to the horrible realization that not only could the Yellow Comet fighter plane match his jet move-for-move in direct combat, but he was also going toe-to-toe with one of, if not _the _best pilot in Judgment Squadron.

Wheeling around in a barrel roll, Glenn pulled away from the rounds and pointed his fighter towards the clouds, hoping to use the raw power of the aircraft to blow the Yellow Comet plane's climbing rate out of the water. In an instant he was skyborne, but he didn't even have to look back to know the other pilot wouldn't bother pulling up after him. That would have resulted in disaster on his part, but that left Glenn with the realization that he had little clue as to what the pilot would do in such a case.

One glance out his canopy towards the ground solved that question. The Yellow Comet fighter was spitting fire at one of his comrades.

"_Geez _lou-_eez!_" he heard an evasive Tristan hiss over the radio amidst the rest of the chatter which mostly went ignored by Glenn in the heat of battle. "That thing has more guns in it than a battle with Max and Flak!"

He wasn't kidding, either. For a moment, Glenn wondered if the damned thing even _carried _missiles– and then immediately had the pleasure of seeing one sail out from under the fighter towards Tristan's aircraft. Glenn nearly swallowed his tongue. "_BREAK RIGHT!!!_"

Every Orange Star fighter in the furball besides his own broke hard right at that exclamation. Tristan's was no exception to this, and he just barely put enough atoms between his tail and the missile's tip to stay out of its violent path. But the Yellow Comet fighter stayed tight on the kid's six o'clock, and that infuriated Glenn. Kicking hard onto his wing, he swung down towards the ongoing brawl and aimed his direction right towards the enemy bandit dogging Tristan, looking to shoot over the enemy pilot's plane after giving him a mouthful of gunfire.

As soon as it was apparent he was coming in to assist his friend, though, the Yellow Comet fighter broke off its chase and instead pulled up towards Glenn. They were going to play this game _yet again, _and Glenn felt icy needles shoot through him when he saw this. But then he knew he probably would have preferred it this way, anyway. Better to meet something opposing you head-on instead of cowering before it.

More bullets careened back and forth between the two as Tristan's fighter looped away to safety, only to get pulled into another struggle. Glenn ignored it and grit his teeth so hard he threatened to break every one of them, but kept up the barrage from his six-barreled 20mm cannon. He was again able to mount a good assault, but the enemy plane had so many guns situated on its wings that he had to break off his collision course early and clamor out of the way of the attack by spinning up and over onto his belly again.

This allowed the bandit to track him for enough of an instant to cut at its prey even more. Glenn heard another _PING _pound through one of his tail wings, and now, as he tore away from his foe and began a wide turn, he was seeing red and snorting flames, all while covered in his own freezing perspiration. _DAMN THIS GUY!_

He had never felt so humiliated in his life. He was supposed to be one of Orange Star's best pilots, and he couldn't even take down this flying hunk of crap that was tearing into his and his wingmates like some sort of reincarnation of the Orange Baron. If Glenn somehow managed to send that thing on a one-way trip to the ground, he quickly swore that he was going to follow it and claw it apart with his bare hands when this was all over.

Unfortunately, he didn't see that happening soon, because not only had the Yellow Comet fighter raced back around onto his six o'clock during his turn, it was now forgoing the bullet-blasting and trying to attain a missile lock. Glenn realized he was about to have a much harder time with this situation, and an enemy air-to-air missile was something he could _not _outrun. "Someone get this guy off my six _NOW!_"

The beeping sound increased in intensity, its successive tone becoming faster and more hectic. The enemy pilot had his missile lock. There was only one more level the sound could attain. "_SOMEONE GIVE ME A HAND!!_"

He tensed his nerves and anticipated the final step – the constant, straining _beep _that often ended in fire and destruction for many pilots, but instead, to Glenn's surprise, the annoying noise disappeared entirely. Blinking in confusion, Glenn swung around in his seat and felt his jaw drop in disbelief at what he saw.

--- --- ---

"_REINFORCEMENTS!_" Judgment Three yelled into the Black Hole radio channel. "More Orange Star fighters in-bound! They've taken down our bombers! Four, are you okay!?"

"I'm fine," Four half-responded, half-growled. "They took a good chunk out of my wing, though. I'm going to have to pull out and head back."

"The _hell _you will!" Judgment One roared. "You'll get your Yellow Comet ass back onto that fighter's tail if you know what's good for you! We didn't come here to _run away _from these miserable rats! That's an _order!_"

Four's response was calmer than anything said thus far between the two sides. "I'd sooner follow such a command from a child. I'll be at the supply base."

"_Ugh!_" Judgment One's jaw bunched up in rage – until he found himself having to evade one of the new enemy bogeys' missile locks. His fingers punched away at buttons on his aircraft's console, calling back most of the Black Hole artificially-piloted fighters, and his teeth bared underneath his oxygen mask in animal-like fury. These bastards – he'd just destroy them _twice _as hard. "Damn them! All fighters, _it's time to get serious!!_ Step it up, and _kill them all!!_"

--- --- ---

The new squadron of Orange Star fighters soared head-on into the furball, and Glenn was still getting his eyes adjusted to this sight. Apparently, everyone else was too, including Rainey Banker. "Wow, where in the world did these guys come from?"

Glenn wasn't certain, but he was more than willing to accept the help as he watched the squadron blaze a path of violence into the Judgment Squadron, already antagonizing the enemy pilots. With the number of human pilots suddenly skewed so far against them, despite the help from the rejoining AI-fighters, even the Judges were forced to step up their gameplan.

"_Thunderbolt Squadron!_" It was the control tower operator's edge-riddled tone. "_Sunset Squadron has returned from their mission! Captain Alberto de la Vega is in their command; work with him to eliminate the enemy bandits while base staff makes its escape in transport helicopters! Protect the choppers if necessary to prevent—"_"

The operator's voice cut off rapidly. At the same time, Glenn caught a flash of light in his peripheral vision, and he turned in his seat to become victim to the sight of a barrage of missiles slamming into the control tower courtesy of the attacking AI-fighters. He could only watch in horror as the entire lanky building erupted in an inferno and began to crumble at its seams. Not only had more lives just been lost on their side, but they had also lost their primary means of landing safely back on the base – or what was left of it, as he realized when he took further notice of the base's condition.

In the course of the dogfight, the AI-fighters and enemy bombers had been hitting Reagan Air Force Base with everything they had, and Glenn saw less of the anti-air gunfire than there'd been when the fight had started. In its place, flames crackled skywards from every section of what was left of their home. Buildings had collapsed upon themselves after missile attacks. Only the pilot's wing, two hangars, and the secondary runway remained completely intact. Glenn had seen many terrible things in his life, but such a sight rendered him stunned for precious seconds on end.

It took a moment for him to discover the unfamiliar voice speaking to him through the radio connection. ". . . Gordon! _Lieutenant Gordon! _This is Captain de la Vega!"

Glenn redirected his awareness to his surroundings as best he could while the dogfight stepped up a notch in violence. He'd never met Sunset Squadron's flight leader, but it was a hell of a time to get some allies. "I read you, Captain!"

"Commander Beauregard is in one of those transport choppers," the other experienced war ace told him. "If something happens to him, we're going to be hurt. I want some of your boys to keep them out of harm's way while we're dealing with these pests up here. Have two of your pilots escort them to safety at Dawn Air Force Base."

As much as he would have liked to follow that request, Glenn held no doubt whatsoever that _nobody _in Thunderbolt Squadron would be willing to leave the fight. He wouldn't have had it any other way. "With all due respect, sir, I don't think—"

"That's a goddamn _ORDER, _Lieutenant! Get—" De la Vega's voice suddenly rose in anxiety. "_Bandits heading for the choppers!_ _Get them away from there!!_"

Glenn's attention swung back towards the base. Two of the Judges were cutting a path away from the fight and tearing ass straight towards the orange transport vessels hurrying away from Reagan, the black fighters ripping one way and the other to evade what was left of the anti-air fire directed at them. Two of his Thunderbolt friends tried to speed on after them to give chase, but by the time they'd gotten around to begin their run, the bogeys were light-years ahead of them. Glenn's blood ran cold for the millionth time that night, and he set air-speed records on his way to intercept the bastards. Captain de la Vega's plane joined his in the pursuit.

Thumbing a switch on his yoke, Glenn activated his missile system and curved in behind the bandits with de la Vega's fighter thundering along at his five o'clock like a bolt of lightning that threatened to knock Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader right out of the way if he didn't get there quickly enough. The bandit pair did nothing to evade their pursuers, making tracks for where the collection of transport choppers poked along at the base's edge, and that made Glenn's skin tighten. "They're not even trying to get out of the way!"

"Then let's knock them out of the way ourselves," the Captain commanded.

That was all Glenn needed to hear. Aiming the HUD's red little box around one of the fighters and latching it onto the enemy craft, Glenn depressed the dangerous button his forefinger gripped, and the night was alive with the scream and flash of missiles. One each from he and de la Vega's craft burned into the skies towards the enemy fighters at over two thousand miles an hour. The bandits continued their course, and only at the very last possible second did they begin to try and evade their pursuers' malicious attack.

One bandit barreled onto its stomach and pulled down as hard as the craft's nuts and bolts would allow without coming apart there in the air altogether. The other bolted higher into the sky, and as it did so, bright golden fireballs sailed into the night from its undercarriage. Flares, Glenn realized – They were a newer utility of the modern fighters, and most squadrons in the Air Force didn't yet have their luxurious saving grace, but just the sight of them only made him want to rip up the enemy planes worse, especially when his missile impacted against them while de la Vega's made a banshee cry right past the other bogey. Glenn started to hiss and spit, but then his eyes widened even more.

Only then did he realize what his failure meant.

Like a match being struck in a cave, missiles ripped from the bandits and streamed a line across the sky. Glenn's eyes tracked them, horrified at the sight. In one instant, the transport choppers were swinging around to try and hopelessly evade their fate. In the next, they were consumed by explosions and fire, their remains pitching down towards the war-scarred ground of Reagan, if they didn't disintegrate outright. The enemy bandits traced an arc up and over their targets, wheeling around to rejoin the horrible furball over the base's remains, outright ignoring the two Orange Star fighters that had royally blown their task.

"Bloody _hell!_" de la Vega cursed.

Glenn felt his tongue dry up, liquid welling in his eyelids. Commander Beauregard had been on one of those helicopters, not to mention the rest of the Reagan personnel he'd become acquainted with in his time at the base. He bit the edges of his mouth to keep his composure.

A second later, he was seeing red.

Juking to his side, Glenn aimed his fighter past both a bandit pursuing an Orange Star, and an Orange Star pursuing a bandit, Thunderbolt Squadron's flight leader easing his yoke back onto the enemy bogeys he and de la Vega had already given chase to. The Captain by then had broken off his race and was looking for targets elsewhere, but Glenn hung tight onto the red-cone afterburner trails of his foes.

It was only seconds before the enemy pilots took notice of their potential assaulter and broke away from one another in opposite direction. Glenn ignored the one on the right and stayed hard with the bandit that had released the flares. If he had any more of that crap, Glenn knew that elevated the bandit into a bit more of a dangerous spot than the other enemy bogeys, but he wouldn't give the bastard another opportunity to pull any tricks out of his tail.

Switching the missile system back over to guns, Glenn watched as the bandit slowed and sailed into a colossally powerful turn to try and simply force its pursuer past it, but he saw it coming and hit his airbrakes too, keeping tight on the enemy's ass. The other plane twisted down and rolled back to try and get underneath him, and Glenn followed the maneuver as precisely as his opponent. _Just a bit closer, you son of a bitch!_

That was when they got tangled up in the web of another personal dogfight occurring between Rainey and one of the enemy Orange Star renegades, and that muddled up Glenn's enemy just enough for him to pop some shots off. Bullets whipped into the air, cracking against the bandit's fuselage, producing white smoke from its wounds and sending the plane into even more of a tizzy to get away. As they pounded through and away from the other dogfight, Glenn found another opening and trapshot the bandit with such a torrent of gunfire that it was only seconds before his eyes caught sight of the damage he'd done.

The enemy plane's entire right wing became dislodged from its seams and spun wildly into the night-time air, and then the rest of the aircraft began to barrel-roll violently, around and around. Glenn snap-kicked his fighter onto its own wing and he pulled away from the damage he'd done, past pieces of the disintegrating craft while not even allowing himself to grin. The flames of battle consumed him. "_BANDIT DOWN!_"

--- --- ---

"_MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!!_" Judgment Two screeched, fighting the yoke harder than he'd ever tried. "That _BASTARD _shot me up like Green Earth cheese! I'm going down!"

"Orange Star _dogs!!_" Judgment Three rasped hatefully, cursing their victory over Two from the squadron's remaining Green Earth fighter.

"Ease your course and eject," their flight leader told his victimized wingmate as he sought to get into a position to fill an Orange Star fighter full of holes himself. "I'll have transport choppers make their way here and pick you up when you reach safety. When we're done here, inform us of your location by latitude-longitude, and you'll be fine."

"WHAT!?" Two screamed. "You know what'll happen to me if I'm caught by someone still down there!?"

"It's that, or you can die with pride. Make your choice."

Two growled loudly into the radio like some animal enraged at not being the alpha male of its herd. "Just blow that coward apart, and I'll be a happy man on my deathbed if they catch me!"

Then, as the dropping aircraft passed the confines of the base's property, its stomach-wrenching spin eased up just enough for the canopy to shoot off into the air, followed by the propulsion of the pilot seat high towards the sky. The parachute opened up only a moment later as the rest of the plane continued its descent and finally slammed nose-first into the already wounded fields around Reagan in a massive explosion that bombed the airspace between the dogfighters.

"It was their number one, sir," Judgment Eight informed his leader. "He's the one who took Two down. They passed by me a moment ago."

The flight leader didn't seem to particularly care enough to respond, but someone else did.

"Is that so?" came the low voice of Judgment Seven, whose black Blue Moon fighter arced up onto its side and began a slightly inverted pull towards the enemy Orange Star plane that had taken down one of their own, whether he was ordered to do so or not. He did _not _appreciate having one of his wingmates shot down, regardless of personal feelings for them, and he would show no generosity in the face of his foes now. "I've had enough of this. The dirty, mangy hound is _mine._"

--- --- ---

Glenn saw the enemy pilot bail out of his craft and was immediately tempted to race down there and spit more gunfire at him, but he wasn't the sort of ace who played that game. While the Judges were the most dangerous squadron he'd ever been up against, Glenn would never have even considered doing something of that nature against a person as helpless as the sinking pilot he'd just taken down. With a _humph _and a glare at the large, black parachute sailing down towards Reagan's edges, Glenn turned back in his seat and concentrated on his next kill.

Or at least, he would have if he didn't see something sleek and black rushing straight at him at a closure speed of nine hundred knots. "_HO—_"

**WHAM **went the yoke into his side and to his left, his own sentence being cut off by the violent strain of gravitational forces as Glenn fired his aircraft into a wild looping course downward. The enemy plane _roared _right over his own like some tornado that missed him by an inch, and Glenn could do nothing to quell the horrible, deafening blast of the other plane's engines and the jet wash slamming into his own aircraft. He'd had close calls before, but this time, Glenn got rattled – hard.

"_WHOA! _Glenn," a concerned Tuxedo Ral suddenly queried, lost somewhere in his own twisting, steel-nerved battle with the Judges and their AI-fighter escorts, "you alright!?"

"Yeah," Glenn told him, catching his breath as quickly as he could. "These guys are freakin' lunatics!"

_Or they're just good at scaring us to bits, _he thought, more than aware of their intimidation techniques by then. His heart rate _still _hadn't completely dropped off after what the enemy had pulled prior to his squadron's take-off, but that was to be expected anyway. "How are you guys doing?"

"Oh, we're fine," _BOOM, _"just a little tiny-bit worn out is all. Ain't nothin' some hotshots like us can handle."

Glenn almost grinned, but then realized he didn't want to _at all _anymore. "Good. Keep up the fight, guys! Don't let Sunset get all the glory! We're the _best!_"

The missile alert system rang into his eardrums as soon as he said that. _Oh, for the love of--!_

Glenn hurled his aircraft downrange and spun it around the other way, causing the noise to dissipate, but as he glanced up out of his canopy, he could see the cause of the sound attempting the same maneuver. It was the same aircraft that had almost gone kamikaze on his face – the enemy Black Hole squadron's only Blue Moon fighter jet. A sleek delta-wing aircraft, it was capable of pulling moves just as well as the Orange Star fighter, and while it didn't have as nice a top speed as its counterpart, it made up for it in maneuverability and agility. Glenn felt his already freezing blood go a bit colder. _Great._

He pulled back up hard, but the enemy pilot seemed to predict this, and leveled out before Glenn had begun to make his ascent. Glenn caught wind of this when he glanced back at the other craft, and instinctively broke hard to starboard when it looked like the two aircraft were going to collide again.

Instead of pursuing him, though, the enemy ace was pulling too much speed compared to the other plane and consequently broke off to the opposite side as Glenn wheeled his craft around as tightly as physics allowed. The Blue Moon fighter pulled the same move, and this resulted in both of them speeding right back around towards each other.

Thumbing his yoke, Glenn readied the guns again, but he was still antsy about the other pilot's recklessness – or perhaps it was tenacity and fearlessness – so he eased the stick ever so slightly to put himself in a downward position that hopefully _wouldn't _help their noses meet one another, but the enemy fighter rolled over onto its belly and drifted a bit down as a result after the Thunderbolt flight leader did this. Tracer bullets cut a golden line at him, lighting the skies further. "Damn it!"

As he was already pulling on the yoke as hard as he could, he could only slow the aircraft down to try and get even _less _of a turning circle out of the poor thing, but he managed to keep the aircraft free from harm this time. Glenn honestly felt bad for the plane now – he'd gotten attached to his fighter over the last few months, as it had seen him through thick and thin, and he almost felt some odd, unannounced kinship with it, so he knew he had to take care of it as best he could. If he did that, he knew it would take care of him as well. This time, he kept her out of pain's way and continued his turn, twisting back down towards the ground.

He glanced back again in the cockpit after speeding past inky black smoke from someone's missiles as more flashes caught the edges of his line of sight. Sure enough, the Blue Moon fighter was whirling down after him, and Glenn's brow furrowed. _Fine, damn it! This is my turf, so let's play MY game!_

His hand slammed the throttle up as far as it would go as he pointed the fighter's nose directly at the ground. The sudden increase in acceleration, the sense of the ground enveloping the canopy, and the fact that he was being pursued by one of Judgment Squadron's more dangerous pilots shook his nerves, but he looked past the fear. There was no point in being afraid anymore. But another glance back at the enemy plane struck his blood with a hammer – The Blue Moon fighter hadn't hesitated in the least and was breaking his old airspeed records in chasing him down to the planet.

Down further they raced until finally Glenn realized he was approaching the ground _far _too quickly for comfort. He whirled his warbird around again and hauled back on the yoke just before Macro Land got close enough to reach out and slap him out of the air, and almost immediately realized that this move of his had been a poor idea executed even poorer. The Blue Moon fighter slowed rapidly as Glenn had started back up and turned with him, spitting more gunfire his way.

_PING! _went something through his left wing, and the terrifying shock of being hit _yet again _sailed through Glenn once more, but he was still airborne, and that was what counted. But the enemy pilot was still on him, and he was getting ravishingly tired of it already. The Judges were driving him nuts and made him want to chew through chainwhips. So much for all the praise he'd been getting from Commander Beauregard and the Commanding Officers like Nell and Sami. So much for his annihilation of a Black Cannon and that satellite dish thing from the Black Hole train. So much for all his damn training and putting up with Fel Banon and Stupid-Name Gallow. _I don't believe this!_

Past more fighters he sped as he regained his momentum and height, and in the millisecond that passed after he did so and he started to consider what to do next, more gunfire blew past him, except this time, it was immediately followed up by the missile alert warning sound. Glenn pulled harder toward the clouds, rendering any missile attack nigh-useless, but that only allowed the Blue Moon fighter to continue its bullet barrage.

Glenn felt sweat pour into his eyes as he finally began to notice his exhaustion as he pulled again to evade the attack. The bandit behind him wasn't screwing around – This enemy pilot meant business.

He almost wanted to yell for help, but knew that everyone else was too busy to even think about assisting. War consumed the skies around him. Everywhere he looked, one of his companions was dealing with either a Judge or one of those damned AI-fighters, so he did the only thing that really came to mind. He grabbed the throttle and pulled it back all the way it would go while engaging his airbrakes. The force of the sudden deceleration slammed him forward in his seat and made his skin feel as though it would go flying from his bones any moment, but when he saw the enemy bandit pull alongside his, having not been completely anticipating such a gratuitous move, he regained all sense of war thirst.

The bandit juked off high to starboard in a reactionary move, and Glenn kicked right after it. He wasn't in good enough a position to initiate a lock-on for open fire on the bogey the old-fashioned way, but it was the first time he'd had an edge over the Blue Moon fighter in both their current struggle and back over Sgadd, so he took what he got.

But the enemy plane had a better turning radius than he did, and was already seeking to make use of it. Glenn hissed to himself and tried to figure out how to correct this when something else suddenly caught his attention. One of the Orange Stars was being dogged by a Judge and two AI-fighters not far from where he flew, and as much as he hated to do so, Glenn didn't waste any time breaking off his hopeless pursuit of the Blue Moon fighter.

Immediately he clenched the trigger on the yoke, sending shivers through his body as the 20mm guncannon at the front of his fighter popped a stream of bullets down at the bandits chomping at Tristan Royal's tail. The two AI-fighters juked away and out of the fight, but the Judge and their black Orange Star fighter carried on mercilessly. The edge in Glenn's frown intensified, and he increased the suppressive fire, this time actually seeking to make his aim true.

The bandit merely slipped left and ruddered to the right, opening fire on Tristan's craft. Even as far away as he was, Glenn could see chunks of the fuselage burn away into the night, and the kid broke hard to starboard. The bandit stayed tight on him as Tristan's anxiety became clear over the radio. "Taken some damage! I think these guys got _better _since our tussle at Sgadd!"

"No kidding," Glenn agreed, guiding his aircraft after the chase. "If I didn't know better, I'd say these guys were trying to shoot us down."

He eased his fighter in behind the enemy bandit who still dogged Tristan and spared a quick look to his own six o'clock to make sure it was clear of anything he didn't want back there. Naturally, the black Blue Moon fighter had somehow managed to spring right back on his ass, prompting Glenn to bare his teeth in rage and shock, but then he saw another Orange Star plane curve in behind the bandit behind _him. _And only a second after _that _happened, _another _bandit sliced into the mix behind _that _Orange Star fighter.

Glenn couldn't believe his eyes. He was suddenly inside of the world's most fearsome aerial freight train thought possible. The five fighter jets forked around the skies as though attached to one another by some unseen rails, creating tension so immense that not even a hot knife could have cut through it. Glenn struggled to maintain his focus as the bandit on his tail edged ever closer, ignoring its own pursuer. _This is crazy!_

Tristan arced his plane around towards the ground and brought it back up in a twisting roll, and as he came back up, he inverted into a rolling scissors maneuver. Every single fighter jet behind him mimicked the action perfectly. Glenn silently wondered how in the world this was going to end as G-forces pushed against his cranium – and then received his answer in the response of tracer rounds diving past his canopy. "_HEADS UP!_"

The Orange Star fighter behind the Blue Mooner responded in a similar tone and was rewarded with bullets tearing at it as well. Glenn didn't notice, as he was too busy trying to decide in the instants of time he had left if he should break away or open a six-pack of hot lead on the bandit in front of him as well. In the end, he chose to do both.

Hauling back on the yoke, he triggered the worn stick's notorious red forefinger button again, spraying cannonfire into the black Orange Star plane hounding Tristan. Much to his own surprise, having grown used to not hitting anything worth a crap thus far in the fight, one of the rounds ended up impacting with the vessel – right up the pilot's left afterburner. A fiery blast enveloped the back of the tail, and the whole left engine died out like a doused match. In the next instant, the enemy plane shot up and away from Tristan's fighter.

"Thanks, Glenn," Royal wheezed, guiding his fighter out of harm's way.

"You owe me!" Glenn gassed, and he could almost see the grin on Tristan's face from there, mask or no mask. But then he glanced around again, and prayed to see his tail clear from the threat of the rogue Blue Mooner. It wasn't. The other two planes involved in the chase had by then raced away from the train, and Glenn growled loudly, ratcheting the throttle back up to its fullest amount as he kicked the afterburners on.

In seconds, he created enough distance between himself and the pursuing fighter to hurriedly cut back around and return from whence he'd come even as the missile alert system wailed through his cockpit. He aimed the nose of his craft directly at the oncoming bandit, teeth clenched and fire in his eyes. He was fed up with this game. He was fed up with the fight. _Right here, bastard!_

The enemy pilot's path didn't waver in the least -- he was accepting Glenn's challenge. The two planes screamed right towards one another at the fastest speeds they'd seen yet in the battle. _RIGHT HERE!_

The sky roared with the fury of 20mm guncannons, lightning bolts tearing across each of the two fighters from one another's birthplace. In the instant that he finally hurled his aircraft out of the way, he saw one small puff of smoke form and disappear across the enemy bandit's wing. The two planes barreled past one another, jet washes and shrieking engines screaming at the enemy. The enemy bandit thundered up and off into the dark clouds behind him, afterburners echoing across the atmosphere.

Glenn had not been hit.

--- --- ---

"This is Eight – My systems are starting to fail! Internal damage! I've gotta get out of here!"

"Six here – I've taken hits too! I think I've got a fuel leak!"

Judgment One's eyes hardened as he watched another of his AI-fighters get blown to pieces. Such had been the fate of most of them by then, and he was infuriated by the sudden odds against them. But they couldn't run away – they weren't cowards like these pathetic Orange Star vermin. "We're not—we can't run!"

Just the thought of Hawke's reaction to this failure filled his heart with ice. He would never live it down, if he lived upon his return at all. But beneath his exterior, he knew he had a responsibility to keep the squadron as safe as possible, and going against such odds was not the correct means of achieving that measure. Clenching his jaw again, Judgment One shook his head in condensed irritation and keyed his radio. "All planes, break your actions and follow me, triple-time. Point your noses towards sector three-oh-two-five, now."

"We're running away," Three uttered in a defeated tone. "These pathetic _cowards. _We could have destroyed them with fair numbers!"

One examined what the damage they had already wrought upon the enemy squadron's home, and then glanced at the number of enemy aircraft that were either smoking or already planted firmly upon Macro Land's war-hammered surface. A slithery grin enshrined itself upon his angular face underneath his helmet and mask as he engaged his afterburners, making tracks away from the furball. "I believe we have instilled enough horror and pain into their lives for today, my friends and _associate. _No complaining, now – follow me and keep your souls intact. And someone get ahold of Two."

"Right away, sir."

--- --- ---

By the time he was already getting neck-deep into another dogfight with a Judge, Glenn had begun to wonder if he should just eject out of his craft and save himself a lot of time and effort. This was getting to be far too much for he and his friends to handle, even with the odds stacked up in their favor with the assistance of Sunset Squadron. It was an even harder struggle than Sgadd's, and he'd never felt so utterly exhausted in his entire life, but even still, with everything pounding against him – the force of physics, the enemy bandits, his own decreasing will – he continued to swing the yoke back and forth in battle, wishing every second for the fight to just simply finish.

And then, it did.

Every single enemy bandit on the opposing force broke hard and kicked their afterburners into action. Glenn at first wondered what was going on, but then took notice of their singular heading. Even the tenacious Blue Mooner had swung away from its pursuit and was mercifully granting him an end to the battle. Glenn was almost tempted to tear ass after him, but as he leveled his aircraft out, he realized he felt inches from passing out. Sweat consumed his flight suit. His nerves were shot from one end of the planet to the other. His heart rate still hadn't slowed down. His head felt like it had a sledgehammer ping-ponging around inside it from the gravitational forces.

He, frankly, could not give chase even if he'd wanted to.

Catching enough breath to speak, Glenn released his oxygen mask from his face, letting cool air rush onto his skin. It almost felt good, but the pain in his body otherwise prevented him from enjoying it. He gripped the mask and held it closer to his mouth. "All wings, sound off and report status."

Tuxedo Ral's normally wild tone was the first to crackle into Glenn's helmet. At first, the Thunderbolt flight leader wondered if it were really the squadron's second-in-command speaking. He'd never heard Tux sound so worn out – all the _umph _from the man's usually cool tone was gone. "Ral, standing by. Damage to my tail, but I'm okay."

"Banon, standing by. No damage to report."

"Royal, standing by. Internal damage, having some issues with my HUD, but I'm good to go."

Glenn listened to his comrades sound off one-by-one, eagerly awaiting the finish with hope. _Please let them all be safe._

"Gallow, standing by. Took one to my fuselage and another to my wing. I'm fine."

"Banker, standing by." Thank goodness. "No damage to report."

"_Yahasititapen._" And Achmed muttered something so unintelligible that Glenn thought he'd have an easier time understanding whale songs, but Achmed's fighter was still intact, when he took a gander at it. That was enough for him. It was a miracle they were all even still flying at all.

Then, with his loudest and deepest sigh ever, the squadron flight leader weakly turned his eyesight towards Reagan Air Force Base. It was almost completely decimated beyond repair. It looked even worse than it had when he had first examined its condition during the furball. It had been his home since arriving at Macro Land, and now it was gone. He nor anyone said anything over the radio.

It wasn't until another Orange Star fighter began to ease up near his own. Captain de la Vega's tone coursed through his ears. "Lieutenant Gordon, have you and your pilots follow us to Dawn Air Force Base. We're running low on fuel, so we'll have to land before your squadron. I'll have brass bring you back to retrieve what belongings you can recover. Understood?"

Glenn didn't respond.

"Lieutenant," de la Vega repeated in his odd, foreign accent, voice emboldened.

The Thunderbolt flight leader's eyes turned away from Reagan into the horizon. "Yes-sir."

"Good. I'll take point. All aircraft, follow me." That said, the squadrons sailed into the night sky, away from the fires of ruin behind them and forming up with one another. No one from Heartbreak Squadron joined up with them – there was nothing left of them.

Glenn could only look back once.

--- --- ---

"What are you going to tell Commander Hawke, sir?" Judgment Six queried.

"It doesn't matter," One replied plainly. "We are going to accomplish our goals as I see fit, if you'll recall Rest assured, the next time we meet these men and women in battle will be the _last. _I will make certain of it if I have to die seeing it to its end."

"They fought harder than last time, though," Six admitted. "And with the loss of Five, I'm afraid death may be a possibility."

Silence overcome the squadron's radio connection. But the inevitable response came not from One, but from Judgment Seven, who uttered in a mildly inconvenienced tone:

"We'll see about _that._"

Judgment One turned and fixed Seven's fighter with a piercing gaze.

His slithery grin returned.

-----------------

Author Notes:

This chapter is a pretty long one, which explains why it took a while to get out, I guess. I hope you enjoyed it – and didn't get bored halfway through – and I'll see what I can do about getting the next one out a little bit quicker. And just for the record, Sarumarine, the guest appearance worked out better than I could have hoped, because it created an opportunity for some action with the Judges. I just hope the guest spot worked out for you too. I realize now I might have taken something away from the last chapter of "the Death Array" as a result of it, but... ah well. Anywho, thanks for reading, folks.


	15. Mistakes

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Fifteen – Mistakes---**

It hadn't taken too long for Thunderbolt Squadron to return to what was left of Reagan Air Force Base to assume possession of their belongings. Luckily, the pilot's wing hadn't been hit too badly in the attack, and they'd been able to claim whatever they felt like taking with them to what would be their new base of operations – at least until high command figured out what the hell to do with them. No doubt it would take forever, or so Glenn figured. Maybe when they got around to getting them airborne once again, they'd also give him an excuse as to why Thunderbolt Squadron had been sitting on its posterior so far away from the frontlines. Glenn had given that quite a bit of thought, but the only reason he'd been able to give the situation was that they were perhaps saving the pilots for something. They'd already lost Bubba – No sense in losing more if they had something around the corner.

But Glenn honestly couldn't have cared less over what they had in store for the squadron. He was now focused on but one thing. In the four days he'd been at Dawn since the attack, his depression had ended quickly and had given way to an almost unquenchable feeling of anger and hatred. At times he couldn't stand it. Even as he'd sit in the cafeteria every morning having his normal meager breakfast, every molecule in him burned and sizzled at the thought of the carnage the Judges had wrought. While they had dealt at least some punishment upon the Black Hole forces in the attack, they had suffered greatly in doing so, and the whole thing could have been chalked up as nothing but an awful strategic loss for Orange Star.

Beauregard was gone. Heartbreak Squadron had gotten ripped to shreds. A sizable number of Reagan staff and personnel had made it away from the attack unscathed, having made the bolt on solid soil, but the majority of it wasn't around anymore. Glenn relished the fact that he'd blasted one of the sons of whores who'd taken the transport choppers down, but it didn't ease his quaking emotions too well.

The rest of the squadron, from what he'd observed thus far, was dealing with the situation as best they could, but it was in no way an easy thing to accept for any of them. Most of them had been quiet, almost unassuming since arriving at Dawn, perhaps trying to handle it all as soldiers should have. Tuxedo Ral was _almost _an exception to this mass vow of silence – he wasn't about to let the incident and its grim results get him down too much, but try as he might to keep spirits bright among the team, much of his _oomph _had disappeared, though it reappeared sporadically, often to Glenn's annoyance. Fel Banon and Zodo Gallow were as distant as ever, but that obviously hadn't surprised Glenn. The same went for Achmed, who Glenn had enough trouble understanding when they tried to do so much as greet one another. Tristan had been almost apologetic to Glenn for the past few days, and his sympathy irritated the Thunderbolt flight leader because it made him feel even worse about the whole thing. Glenn had politely told Tristan to not worry about it, but he didn't doubt its ineffectiveness.

And then there was Rainy Banker. Glenn had taken great effort in trying to at least console her a little, a task at which he'd failed spectacularly. She was just as upset over the attack as he was, and wanted little if anything to do with him – for the moment, anyway. Although he'd never readily admit it, he was a bit disappointed in her reaction to everything that had happened. By then he'd grown to expect the highest degree of maturity among the team, but when he saw how put off she was, he'd barely even known what to say. Best to just leave her be for now, he'd decided.

In the end, he knew he was going to have to speak to his friends about the direction they were headed. Amidst his irritation, he'd been trying to figure out exactly what to say to them when he decided to do so, and he'd started getting some idea as to what he wanted out of a meeting, but he couldn't yet predict what the results would be. Only one way to find out, he figured. But Glenn was done dicking around with politics. They had a war to fight. He would stand for the internal conflict no longer, and he would make it clear to them somehow.

Eventually, as the fourth day progressed, Glenn realized his anger had finally waned, and he could think conscious thoughts without wanting to rip the nearest Black Hole uniform to ribbons with his bare hands. He wasn't sure what to feel when he finally sat and considered the situation, but somehow he felt that if Beauregard were there right now, he'd get ahold of _some _reason to berate Glenn's lack of success in pretty much everything he'd done for like the last week.

So it was that on the fifth day of their little Dawn vacation he sat alone outside an open hangar, taking in the base's fresh mid-morning air. Although Dawn was closer to the frontlines, it had not been touched by the atrocities of combat, just as Reagan hadn't before its demise, and Glenn discovered the similarities to be quite comforting. If only the staff were the same people he'd known – It was less than a week into his Dawn stay, and he'd already gotten on the bad side of the cafeteria cook after Glenn had made it clear one afternoon before that he found the quality of the food to be less than sufficient, though he hadn't put it that way exactly. Although the rest of the squadron agreed – save for Achmed, who felt the base's edibles were the greatest thing since sliced cheese – Glenn was of course the one who caught the flak. Oh well.

It wasn't long until he started feeling some level of boredom within him. Dawn's break room was nothing compared to Reagan's. Reagan personnel had overlooked the presence of a big-screen television, a pool table, a dart board, and whatever the hell other sort of fun-and-overly-expensive crap the squadrons could shove in there in hopes that the bigwigs wouldn't notice or care, but Dawn's break room looked like – to Tux's horror – an extremely average, by-the-book break room. There was little in the way of personal pleasantries in the rooms the squadrons had been temporarily given to accommodate the sudden rise in guests, as there wasn't much space in them. So Glenn had thus far had to occupy himself with other means. Most of these means involved sitting, drinking coffee or tea, and watching planes take off and land.

And that was exactly what he was doing right then.

Glenn leaned back and rested his head against the hangar. _Holy crap, this sucks._

Although he was a fellow who enjoyed peace, it was more than a little unsettling to not hear Tuxedo Ral's usual stupid banter, or Tristan asking dumb questions everyone else knew the answers to, or Gallow basically being a dick, or Fel blabbering about some great accomplishment he'd pulled off that made him better than everyone else alive, or Achmed saying absolutely nothing understandable whatsoever, or Rainey being Rainey. Glenn would have given anything to get tossed into his fighter, but they were all undergoing a heavy-duty case of repairs and overhauls. Command wanted to be positively certain that they weren't sending their pilots up in lame aircraft, so that was just one more thing that drove him bonkers.

It all gave him such a headache. If he weren't suffering from combat fatigue, Glenn knew he must have had _some _sort of ailment that was born out of being totally depressed, pissed off, and confused all at the same time.

On occasion he'd glance to his side, peeking into the hangar itself. There was only one plane in it – Glenn knew it to be Fel Banon's from the name and kill number markings on its paint scheme – but it had also turned into somewhat of a garage, and the base mechanics had a few recon jeeps resting in it silently, poking away inside of them at whatever might have needed tinkering with. It was a relatively busy place – usually. There hadn't really been anyone he recognized in there today, but occupying a table while overlooking what were most likely schematics for engines or something was one staff member who he couldn't help but look at. She was wearing an Orange Star military uniform that he couldn't quite place the origin of – If it were an officer's or an enlistee's get-up was beyond him. But as much as that confused him, he wasn't too concerned with it.

It wasn't long before she turned to examine Fel's aircraft and noticed he was watching her. An embarrassed Glenn Gordon turned his gaze away and looked back out to the currently empty runway situated in the distance.

Some five minutes later, after a round of arguing with himself, Glenn couldn't help it. Why the hell not? She was pretty cute, and he was bored silly. So far into this stay, he'd had nothing better to do than sit around and mope about what had happened. This was a good chance to get away from all that – if for a little while. If Rainey found out about it, well... Glenn decided he'd deal with _that _and their little could-barely-maybe-sorta-not-be-called-a-relationship later. With a tinge of discomfort running through him, he rose up out the uncomfortable seat he'd been plopped in and sauntered in to the hangar, taking a quick sip of coffee as he stepped over to her.

She did not look up from the schematics on the table before her, so Glenn went ahead and said in the friendliest tone he could muster without looking like a clod: "Hi."

The girl's pupils went up from the big blue paper, and she eyed him for a second with a pleasant-enough smile to accommodate his greeting. "Hi there, Captain."

Captain? She must have been a recent enlistee if she weren't able to even tell bars apart yet. Glenn tried to chuckle, but stopped when he realized how utterly fake it sounded. "Actually, I'm a First Lieutenant."

She just raised her eyebrows for an instant in acknowledgement of this statement and didn't respond. Glenn quickly felt very awkward and glanced between her and the blueprints she'd been poring over, struggling to think of something smart to say. He failed. "Whatcha doin'?"

"I don't think that's somethin' you need to know," she replied with a childish smile. "This's top-secret bigwig stuff."

"Is that so?"

"Yup," she said in a _maybe _sort of tone.

Wasn't that cute. Glenn went along with it. "Oh, okay. Bigwig stuff. You don't really look like a typical five-star General, though."

"Does _Andy _look like a commanding officer?"

Glenn thought a moment. "Touché."

Her smile grew, and then she went back to what she'd been doing. For the life of him, Glenn could not tell what the heck rank she was, and that threw him for a total loop. She was very mysterious, and he didn't know what to make of that. It was most likely a good idea to press forward, although if she were actually busy, he knew he'd be bothering her, and he genuinely didn't want to do that, but he couldn't resist. "So, uh."

The mystery gal suddenly looked back at him. "You're Glenn Gordon, right?"

That caught Glenn a bit off-guard. "Yes, ma'am, that would be me."

"It's real nice to meet you. I've heard about a couple of your squadron's exploits from my sis'. You guys are pretty cool."

"Oh," and Glenn couldn't help but grin, "why thank you. That's nice of you to say."

He meant it. It wasn't often that the squadron received commendation for the sacrifices it had made, even in the form of simple flattery. The Orange Star military machine was comprised largely of unsung heroes, but that was life.

"You've all done some pretty impressive things. I like that."

"It's just part of the job."

She seemed to consider that, and then was quiet for a second as she watched him. "I'm sorry about what happened."

Glenn was too when she said that.

"Yeah," he uttered, "so am I."

The silence went on.

Eventually Glenn examined the blueprints again, anxious to stay distant from the Reagan subject. "So, are you a mechanic? Or--?"

"Ah," she said, glancing at them, "no. I guess you could say I'm in training."

"Oh." Glenn silently wondered exactly what kind of training that was. "It must be pretty important."

Not that he had any idea if it really was or not, but she didn't deny it. "Yeah, it's kinda hard. But I'm gettin' it."

"That's good." Glenn tossed his drink into an adjacent garbage can and propped an arm onto the table. "I haven't seen you on-base before today. Did you just get transferred here?"

"Not really, no. I'm just here getting a feel for how things work."

"A feel for how things work," he repeated, making it clear that he had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

"Yep," she said, and with her smile growing, added: "Getting to know the people, too."

"Met anyone you like?" Glenn was all for being flirty when he felt up to it, but something here felt off. He made no mention of it, though.

"Yeah, sure." She let her hands skim across the blueprints to flatten them out more. "A couple people. That Gallow fella's is pretty nice. Handsome too."

Glenn resisted the very large urge to groan and gag at once, but when he realized she was screwing with him, he managed to suppress his revulsion into a sardonic sigh, and she chuckled at the sight. She must have been aware somehow of the pilots' blatant dislike for one another, and that only confused him more about her.

"I'm sure he's not a bad guy," she commented. "He actually was pretty nice to me when I spoke with him."

_Probably because he wants your number too, _Glenn's thought process vomited. "We'll see. So, uh, listen, if you're not doing anything later, maybe—"

"Are you already trying to ask me out?" She struck him with a quizzical look.

Glenn hesitated. If knocking him off-balance was her goal, she was winning ten to one. "I guess so."

"Hey, did you really blow up that train with Andy and the Crazy Wolf on it?"

Oh Lord. That again. Glenn racked his mind, looking for a halfway-decent answer. "Uh, I guess you could say that. Well, we didn't, uh... I mean, it was a precision strike operation. There was this satellite dish on the train, and we were aiming for _that _more than anything else, but a few of us fired off too many shots at it and we'd already punched through it, so I guess some of the missiles hit the car they were on and that only helped derail the whole thing. The target was weaker than we assumed it was."

"Oh," she cooed. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. It's not like it really made much of a difference in the end." Yeah right. One of those missiles had almost hit the frickin' Neo Tank that Andy and that one operative – El Lobo Crazio, as Tux was calling him lately – had taken shelter in. It was a miracle they'd made it out of that clunky thing without having grounded all of their teeth to powder. "So, anyway, what's your na—"

"If I were those guys, I'd probably have been _prit-tee _mad at you. Fratricide! Shame on you!" She beamed at him.

Glenn's eyelids drooped. "Don't you remember any of our accomplishments that _didn't _almost get a commanding officer killed?"

"Well," and she scratched her chin thoughtfully while she went diving for memories, "I know about Fate's Point, too. Sounds like a pretty wild fight. It's pretty cool that a Black Cannon got taken out by just a little tiny fighter squadron."

Glenn usually wasn't too thrilled with being patronized, but he knew she was messing with him. "Y'heard about that too, huh."

"Yeah. My big sis' tells me a lot of war stories. I guess it's part of my training. She probably hopes it's, like, preparing me or something for when I get into high command."

"Really?" Glenn blinked.

"She's real smart. She rose through the ranks pretty quickly."

Glenn suddenly felt a _very_ unnerving feeling running through his bones. "Who... Uh-- Who is, uh, your, um—"

Around the hangar door's corner marched another female figure that strode right up to Glenn Gordon and the funny Orange Star girl he still hadn't figured out. In her hand she clutched a small felt-covered box, the kind typically associated with pieces of jewelry, and she stopped right next to them, hitting Glenn with what was in no way an entirely pleasant expression. "Gordon."

Glenn felt the majority of his upper body organs freefall into his stomach as he saluted. "Commander."

Commanding Officer Nell opened the little box and retrieved its contents. "I'm afraid that I'm very short on time, so we'll have to give the heave-ho to formalities this time around, but that shouldn't degrade the quality of this recognition any. I'd like to think that you've earned it."

After putting the box away, she reached out and assumed possession of the bars on his uniform, then placed a set of new ones on it, and she also added a small bronze-hued medal to his breast pocket. "At the request of some of our commanding officers, you're hereby promoted to the rank of Captain, and for meritorious valor in the face of Orange Star's foes, are also hereby awarded the Distinguished Service Medal. Failure to recognize you and your squadron's actions this far into the conflict has gone on a bit too long."

This was the second of any kind of award or promotion Glenn had received in the entire war. Only once before had he been presented with some manner of honor – the Military Cross after the Fate's Point debacle. Dumbstruck, he felt a great deal of his happiness returning to life, and it was hard for him to maintain completely steady composure as officers were supposed to during such ceremonies. But this could hardly have been called one anyway. Glenn saluted again. "Thank you, ma'am. It's an honor to serve—"

"I also believe," Nell suddenly stated firmly, doing a wonderful job of shutting Glenn up, "that your discussion with my sister has gone on a bit too long as well, wouldn't you think?"

And Glenn felt all that happiness fade away once again as he wondered where the nearest rope he could use to hang himself with was. "Uh, yes, I guess, I mean, affirmative, or, uh—"

"I think she's probably a little bit too young for you anyway." Nell ignored the _extremely _exasperated and embarrassed look that appeared on Glenn's face when she said that, along with her sister's chuckling. "She's already had that bonehead Lieutenant Ral try and get her attention today, but I expected better out of the likes of you, Captain. Try and set an example for your squadron-mates, won't you? They're quite impressionable, especially Royal."

"Yes, ma'am." Glenn still hadn't stopped saluting in fear that Nell would tear his hand off and staple it onto his forehead if he did.

"Very good. Rachel, we need to go. Tell your new friend goodbye. It's the last you'll be seeing of him for a while."

And with that said, Nell turned and began sauntering away, out of the hangar. The quirky Orange Star girl held up a hand and waggled her fingers at Glenn lightly as she walked past. "See ya 'round, Captain."

Then they were gone.

It took Glenn about fifteen seconds to get the courage to make bodily movements again, and as soon as he did, he heard:

"_PFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!_" Standing there was wily old Tuxedo Ral, who had witnessed the whole damned thing and was only in the beginning stages of busting his guts out. "YOU GOT SHOT _DO-O-O-W-W-WN! OHHH MY GOD! YOU CRASHED AND __**BURNED! **_She got you worse than the _**JUDGES!! **__OH-HO-HO GEEZ. _THAT WAS SO GREAT. YOU GOT KILLED. _OHHHH _MAN." Tux's commentary rapidly dissolved into a fit of derisive laughter that would have driven Woody Woodpecker to suicide.

"Shuddup," Glenn muttered as he began to stride out the big building with the noisy guy, his humiliation only just beginning to drop off. Hell had no fury like a female commanding officer scorned.

"WOW, I can't get over that. Oh God, that was awesome. Holy crap, that was funny as everything that was ever funny! Oh, geez. Ohhh my God! That was the funniest damned thing I've seen in weeks. Man, I needed that. Holy God almighty up in heaven bustin' our asses with lightning, that was funny. _Hoooo_-wee, Glenn, I tell ya—"

"That's _Captain _Glenn to you."

Tux stopped cracking up and quit walking altogether, staring at his friend.

"She gave you a frickin' _PROMOTION!?_"

Now it was Glenn who started laughing, and he suddenly felt much better than he had all week.

--- --- ---

Some six hours later, Glenn had managed to get the squadron assembled in one of Dawn's briefing rooms, requesting its temporary use from the base bigshots for a purpose he had to get around to sooner or later. The six of them were seated before him silently as he paced back and forth and thought about how to begin. It had to be said. It was a matter of life and death, at this point. He had to step up, and so did everyone else.

Eventually Glenn stopped and propped himself against a table before them. All of his wingmates had already congratulated him on his promotion – even Fel Banon, and even more surprisingly, Tuxedo Ral, who _still _couldn't get over it – and now they only waited for his words.

"Alright, folks," he finally said to them, "ever since what went down over at Reagan, we've been grounded, and it's given me some time to think things over and figure out what's going on with us. You've all had a chance to sit and recuperate if you needed it. But now it's time to stand back up."

Their eyes cut into him as they listened quietly. Tux and Rainey exchanged a glance; Tristan and Achmed nodded.

"I don't have to remind you that we're in a really messy fight right now. There are men out there who want to destroy us. They want to rip us straight off the face of Macro Land, and they're doing everything in their power to do it, too. And they're giving us a hell of a battle. We've been struggling to overcome them, and I think a lot of that can be attributed to a lack of teamwork. You guys know it's true, and I'll tell you right now that it's my fault."

Fel and Gallow only stared.

"I should have handled all our issues differently. We've paid for mistakes that I've made, and I'm sorry for that. But I'll tell you one thing: My apologies end there, because from here on out, we're going to work differently when we're not up there in the sky. We're gonna support each other, and that's final. I don't care who doesn't like who, or whatever other problems you might have. It's time for us to man up."

Glenn did a _very _good job of getting their attention when he said that. "This squadron sets a damn fine example for others in the air, and from now on, we do the same down here. We're not gonna have any more fights, no more hating on each other. I don't care that we've bickered, and even exchanged blows. The dickery gets a cease-and-desist order right now. You got a beef, save it for when we're not in a war and under the constant threat of attack. Until then, I don't want to hear it. Anyone got a problem with that?"

He looked each and every one of them hard in the eye. No one exhaled so much as a breath of air.

"Great. Anyone who thinks it'd be cute to try and violate this little change is gonna be on toilet-scrubbing duty for the rest of the whole damn war. Your ass won't even so much as see another cockpit until then. I don't care how many people we're short on in this squadron. You pick fights, you're gonna be cleaning crap out of a commode with a toothbrush while the rest of us are up beating the tar out of Judges."

Normally, Glenn would have needed to go through the run-around with higher-ranking officers in order to make sure any of this would actually come true, but by the good grace of Nell, some other COs, and probably God, his new rank of Captain would eliminate a _lot _of that. Although he didn't want to make anyone upset, the rank gave him a pretty large stretch of free room to rightfully throw his weight around, and now that he had that up his sleeve, he sure as hell wasn't about to let it go to waste when it could really come in handy at a time like this.

"Speaking of them, I guarantee that we'll be seeing them again, and next time, they're the ones who are gonna be on the defensive. I'm still working it out, and I'm gonna discuss any options possible with the commanding officers, but sit tight. We'll get back at them. You'll all get the opportunity to lay down some pain on the bastards. I'll make certain of it, no matter the cost."

Wishful thinking on his part, admittedly. He had no clue what to do about those ruthless bastards yet, but Glenn was going to have his way if he had to fly over every Black Hole base on that continent looking for them. They'd get them yet, and make them pay for what they had done. If he had to give his life to see that happen, he would gladly do so in a heartbeat.

"I guess that's about all I wanted to say. You're dismissed."

He half-expected one or two or all of them to start laughing, but no such thing occurred. The Thunderbolts rose out of their seats and began shuffling towards the room's only doorway. Tux and Rainey lingered back and waited for the others to split, and once they were gone, the squadron's second-in-command approached Glenn. "Damn, Glenny, that was inspring. Like somethin' out of a movie."

"Yeah, yeah," Glenn uttered. Hopefully crazy old Tuxedo Ral had actually taken him seriously. He worried enough about the guy even paying attention in briefings as it was.

"I think that was a good idea," Rainey commented. "I guess we needed that. Well, Fel and Gallow did—"

"We all did," Glenn interrupted abruptly before seeing the look on her face, and he repeated in a quieter tone: "We all did."

Rainey was silent for a short moment.

"Yeah," she eventually said.

"So, anyway," Tux blabbered, "what's this plan of yours regarding the Big Evil Judgment Squadron of Death, Destruction, and Suckage?"

"Didn't say I had one." Glenn wondered if it would be more useful to put a blind, deaf, retarded monkey in Tux's place during briefings. "I only said I was gonna get with the commanding officers to try and figure something out. Whether or not that'll have any success, I don't know, but I meant it when I said we were gonna get back at them. No matter the cost."

"I damn well hope so," the squadron's resident clown mumbled.

"You don't need to hope." Glenn looked away. "We're going to tear their holes inside-out, one way or another."

He noticed Rainey was fixing him with an almost odd look. "What?"

Again she was quiet for a second. "Are you alright?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I—" She obviously hadn't expected _that _sort of answer. "I don't know. You seem a little different tonight."

Glenn did not give that a reply. The only thing he was doing here was grabbing the bull by the horns, and putting an end to all the nonsense that the squadron had been suffering from as of late. He had no intention of disappointing those around him anymore, and with what had happened to Reagan and the good people who had worked there, he felt it was his duty to see this to its conclusion.

Tux cleared his throat and turned to split. "I guess I'm gonna go get some dinner. Adios, Cap'n. Later, Rainey."

When he was gone, Glenn started to make for the exit himself, but discovered he couldn't get his feet to move from where they were because Rainey Banker was still looking at him.

"I don't want you to change who you are just to fulfill some goals, Glenn."

He did not look at her, nor did he reply.

"I don't care how bloodthirsty you get. Stay true to yourself, alright?"

She rubbed his arm, then walked away and out the door.

Glenn could only stand there, and then he closed his eyes with a sigh.

-----------------

Author Notes:

Another entirely random update. I noticed Sarumarine just uploaded his first new 'fic in what's been a long time (go check it out), and that sort of put me into a mood to get some more of this done. This chapter's pretty short compared to the most recent one, but a lot of the chapters in this thing are pretty short, I guess. Anyway, stay tuned. Hope you review.

_This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Brig. Gen. Robin Olds._


	16. Dry Winds of War

DISCLAIMER - I do not own Advance Wars or anything copyrightedly relating to within, which is copyrighted and owned by Nintendo, although I do happen to like this piece of work I've written and if I ever discover some random lamer forging it in their name I will be substantially cheesed off, and nasty letters from me will commence bombardment on said lamer. So don't even bother stealing it. However, you MAY place this on your website without my consent should it have an Advance Wars fanfiction section. If that happened and I discovered such a thing has occurred, I'd actually be quite flattered. Thank you, and enjoy.

---------------------------  
**Storming Skies  
By Rusty Dillingham  
**---------------------------

**---Mission Sixteen – Dry Winds of War---**

"I hate this game," an astronomically-bored Tuxedo Ral sighed.

Zodo Gallow said nothing in response.

Dawn's normally quiet, empty break room was filled to the brim with every one of the Thunderbolts, minus Glenn, along with a couple guys from Sunset Squadron, who all stood or sat around the two pilots, watching silently as the battle of wits continued toward its conclusion. Earlier in the day, Zodolphas Gallow had been in the base's small, lackluster provisions store when he'd noticed that one of the few novelty items for sale was a chess set. Much to Tux's distraught horror, it hadn't taken long for word to get around after a conversation he'd had with Rainey Banker that the noisy guy had been on his old high school's chess club, and Gallow, a passing fan of the quirky little game, hadn't had a match in a long time, so he'd given it a buy and had practically forced poor Ral into the fight. Normally he would have given Zodo the old _hell no, _but there had been a number of pilots who had overheard the challenge, some of whom were of the female variety, so he'd had little choice if he wanted to retain his dignity.

Neither player was doing too badly, but there wasn't a clear-cut winner quite yet. Gallow sought to change that by placing his one remaining knight forward in the battle, and when Tux made a move he'd predicted, Zodo's next action put the guy square into a cutting, deadly state of: "Check."

"Are you _KIDDING ME?" _Tux blared.

Gallow still said nothing.

"Come on, man!"

Zodo didn't even _look _at him.

"DAMN IT!" Tux pounded his elbows onto the table, rattling the board and its soldiers, pushing his head into his hands as he frothed at the mouth, struggling to figure out his next move while an attractive Sunset girl stood right next to him, only making him even more uncomfortable.

Somewhere in the midst of this, Glenn Gordon had stepped into the room and couldn't help but wonder what in the hell was going on. He'd expected the whole place to be devoid of life. When he saw what was actually going down, he could only ponder just how much longer it was going to take before Thunderbolt Squadron could get their asses back into the air. Tux must have been losing his mind if he were subjecting himself to this sort of low entertainment, as he'd probably put it. This was almost sad.

Tux pored over his options, fighting to keep his brains from exploding out the top of his head, and then he picked up his queen and outright _slapped_ Gallow's knight straight off the board, firing it across the room. "_CHECK, BITCH._"

He hadn't even finished exhaling that last word before Gallow picked up another faithful trooper, placing it back down in a different spot.

"Checkmate."

Tux felt his jaw drop open in disbelief; it was anyone's guess as to how it hadn't fallen straight off his head and crashed onto the floor. His eyes twitched dangerously as his fingers latched onto his healthy black crop of hair, making unintelligible noises with his mouth. He very slowly turned his gaze over to Rainey Banker, who was standing at one end of the table, an almost murderous look of hatred in his gaze.

"Um," she said quietly, "sorry, Tux."

He could only twitch in response.

Glenn waited until the room cleared out to get himself something out of its tiny fridge. Tux, Gallow, and Rainey remained, and he leaned against a counter by them. "Don't you guys have anything better to do?"

"Not really." Rainey rubbed the back of her neck. "Downtime here is boring. There's nothing to do."

"Well, I'm doing what I can to get us back in the air. Repairs are about complete on the aircraft, so it shouldn't be long."

"Thank God almighty," seethed Tux with a glare at Gallow, who was busy collecting all the pieces his opponent had walloped about the room. "I can't stand it down here anymore. Are we gonna get transferred to a base with the space to take us in? And one with a _real _break room?"

"I'm working on it," Glenn sighed. He hated the thought of getting thrown all over the map by military bigwigs who would want them in some new place every few weeks. It happened on occasion to other squadrons, but the Thunderbolts had been generously lucky thus far into the conflict. "I'm going to get together with Nell and some other commanders today to discuss what we should do, and what we should focus on in regards to the Judges."

He paused a moment, then fixed the three pilots among him with a curious look. "Do, uh, _you _guys have any ideas?"

None of them spoke.

Glenn waited, and began to grow agitated. "Come on, damn it, I'm sick of floundering here. Those bastards are probably already figuring out how to kick us when we're down. We need to go on the offensive."

"Gordon," Gallow finally said, fixing him with a look, "although I understand the gravity of the plight at hand, we're bound by the length of the chains the commanding officers have applied to us. We can only act within their borders. We can't go off on our own agenda. We don't even have good reason to -- We're not the Flying Ligers; it's not like we can claim a bounty for any enemy aircraft we down."

"Good reason? We've got a damn good reason. Those boys are aiming for _us._"

Tux scoffed. "I don't care if the head honchos crap a chicken. We're gonna whoop those sumbitches somehow."

"Yeah," Glenn agreed. "The commanding officers will figure out a way—"

"No halfway-decent commander would allow us to scamper off and face Judgment Squadron when they know most of us are hot-headed enough over what the enemy has done to get ourselves killed in the process." Gallow stepped back over to the table and began putting the pieces to his game back into its adjacent box. "They don't want to risk us doing anything stupid. In the face of a ruthless opponent, there's a difference between ferocity and blind anger. Guess which one _doesn't _get your foe killed."

Although Glenn didn't want to admit it, Gallow had a point. "I think we're competent enough to know what we're getting ourselves into."

"I suppose we'll find out if that's true when you throw us noses-first into combat with them again."

"You could show a little support here," Glenn quibbled.

Gallow didn't look away from what he was doing. Tux and Rainey exchanged a discomforted glance.

"Nice to see you're so broken up over what's happened to us." Glenn crossed his arms.

"Worse things have happened in war. Get over it."

Glenn and Rainey did not reply, the former unable to even consider any sort of answer to that.

Tux did. "What the hell is your fuggin' problem?"

Gallow didn't seem interested in dignifying that with a response.

"You're so damn annoying. Do you even give a crap what happens to us?" Now Tux was getting uppity.

Still no reply. The sound of Gallow grinding his teeth could have been heard ten miles away.

"If you don't care, then why the hell don't you just go back to Black Hole? You obviously want to."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant. The glare that Gallow put into Tux's gaze nearly bore through the guy's head and into the opposing wall. Tux was very efficiently silenced by its power.

"You still think I _liked _flying for those pompous _pigs?_" Zodolphas Gallow hissed in the most awful tone any of them had ever heard him use before.

"Well, y'sure act like it sometimes." Tux struggled to not look the other pilot in the eyes.

"I was _forced _to join that damn_ circus _by that stupid, backstabbing _bastard, _Kailaff Boldigh! When are you going to _GET THAT THROUGH YOUR SKULL, _you _**IDIOT!!?**_ Do I have to DRILL A HOLE IN IT and _SHOVE IT IN THERE!!?_**"**

"Holy shit, calm down—" Tux – and the other two, for that matter – failed to even complete a sentence before the other speaker continued, Gallow's voice rising in volume with every syllable that followed.

"If there was one _good _thing about being in that miserable squadron, it's that I didn't have to put up with this _bullshit! _If I hear you say _ONE MORE THING _about me and Black Hole, I'll rip out your voice box and _GRIND IT INTO A SPICE FOR MY GODDAMNED DINNER!!_"

"Holy God almighty!" Tux was clearly having trouble in choosing between staying in his seat or running out of the room. "I'm sorry, man! Chill out, damn!"

A flabbergasted Glenn Gordon held his hands up toward the berserk Blue Mooner as Rainey's distance between them all increased. Gallow seethed loudly and collected his things, making a very brisk exit. The other three could only stand or sit where they were, mouths agape in the silence.

"Well," Rainey mused, "that was exciting."

Tux's eyes rolled. "Yeah, for _me._"

Glenn didn't even know what to say. It didn't exactly look like his handsome new rank was instilling the others with a fabulous sense of obedience, that was certain. Everyone in the surrounding five miles had probably heard that racket.

Eventually he sent a less-than-impressed look towards Thunderbolt Squadron's second-in-command. "Was all that really necessary?"

"Glenn," Tux gassed irritably, "gimme a break, alright? The guy's an asshole."

"You didn't need to push the envelope. It's not like he's done anything to go against us. He might not be the most social guy on the team, but he works with us, and that's what counts. The whole reason he's in this squadron in the first place is to get some payback at Black Hole too. He's here to stay."

"Well, now I've heard _everything._" The other pilot threw his arms in the air. "Cap'n Glenn Gordon thinks Zodo Gallow is an okay guy. I guess the end of the world must be happenin' about now, don't you think, Rainey? Reckon I'll go take me one last trip to a nudey bar. That'd be a fine place to get vaporized."

"Are you serious?" Rainey stared at Glenn. "You can get pretty stone-cold set in your ways."

Glenn paused. "Whatever."

"Yes-sir, good answer, sir," she replied in a mocking tone.

He did _not _find that funny, but said nothing of it. "I don't care what Gallow says. I'm gonna get help from the commanders. If not, well—"

"Well _what?_" Tux asked.

Again Glenn hesitated. "Then, well, something will just have to come up."

"Say what? Something will just _have to come up?_" Tux blinked.

"Sure. You never know. An opportunity for vengeance may get _handed _to us."

Neither of them said anything at first, and Glenn could only hope he wasn't wishing on a dead star.

--- --- ---

Judgment Seven had not given the squadron's most recent excursion very much thought after its completion, but in the subsequent few days, he noticed it had produced a lasting effect on him, one that filled his mind with uncertainty. As he was already aware, the enemy squadron was tenacious in its goals – That much he could tell from their now two rounds of flying against them, biting hard against their wings. Though they'd had greater numbers, the lightning bolt-insignias in particular had bitten back the hardest, as he had expected. They'd fought with much viciousness, likely irate at both the attack and the realization that it was the same foe who'd ripped apart their nearby city. Seven didn't quite know what to make of the situation, but as time progressed, it was leaving with him a foul taste.

His own anger had at one point loomed larger in his mindset than his patience during the fight – After Two was shot down by the enemy flight leader, he had personally waged war against the pilot. In doing so, he had suffered damage to his fuselage, and though that had already been repaired, he did not like the feeling that fact left in him. For any good fighter pilot, taking damage in a dogfight was like having a child throw mud on one's freshly-pressed uniform. Never before had Seven been struck in a fight, and though he had managed to inflict some pain onto the other fellow's aircraft as well, there was lead to pay.

He was as sensible as he could have been over the plight. He held some level of respect for his foes – much more than that snake One did – but he was frustrated now. While he did not liken himself to be friends with any other member of the Black Judgment Squadron, he committed himself to being part of the team, and after he'd taken that into consideration some time after the battle had finished, Seven was teetering somewhere between commending his enemies and wishing they were dead.

But One was doing this all wrong. He sought to take both teams against each other at the same time. That had resulted in nothing but chaos. Seven knew that if the heart of the enemy could be ripped from its shell, then their foes would collapse like a line of dominos. But One would never listen to his advice. He was too preoccupied with keeping Commanding Officer Hawke from killing the lot of them like they were cows in a slaughterhouse. That meant that he would go about trying to eradicate the enemy squadron in the quickest way possible – taking both teams against one another. Seven fumed over that. He didn't like the idea of being a puppet One could easily dispose of to fulfill his obligations.

He had to draw One away from his destructive path. And after only a few minutes' contemplation, he knew how to do it.

On an early morning some days after the conflict had occurred, Seven caught One lingering around a hangar on their base, likely out of boredom.

"What are you doing?" he had queried to the elder officer.

"I enjoy being among the aircraft," One had replied. "It helps me think."

"About how Hawke would like nothing more than to string us all up on poles out in the sun since we still haven't finished the lightning bolts off?"

"Close. I'm contemplating our next operation. I don't want to wait too long for it, lest we give them a chance to recover."

"Do you have any ideas that _don't _involve pitching us into yet another furball?"

"Is there anything wrong with that?"

"It hasn't exactly resulted in progress. We shot down one of theirs in the first meeting, and they shot down one of _ours _in the second. It's only dumb luck that Hawke may be a _three strikes and you're out _sort of fellow when it comes to us."

One had hit him with a look of disdain. "We will prove our superiority yet. Have some faith."

"Your leadership is hardly something I can have faith in. We'll soon be dead by Hawke's hands because of you."

The muscles in One's jaw had tensed dramatically as he burned at Seven's words. "You're more than welcome to _leave, _you little rat. I don't need your mundane commentary to succeed against those Orange Star tyrants."

"If I left, you'd only die sooner. Even with the loss, you'd throw this squadron straight into battle against them, and they'd _rape _you because you didn't have a full unit backing you. We had enough trouble against them last time when _they _didn't have a full unit. You saw – There were only seven of them."

"Seven seems to be becoming my unlucky number these days."

"Clever."

"Do _you _have any bright ideas regarding our predicament? Somehow, I doubt it."

"Perhaps you could cut the heart from the enemy."

One had sighed. "I seem to be hearing that advice quite a bit. Did we not already do that?"

"I don't mean attacking their home base. That's not a possibility anymore."

"Let me guess. You want me to go _Kailaff Boldigh _on them, don't you?"

"Why not? It was a fair strategy. By taking down the enemy flight leader, you frustrate his underlings into carelessness. There was nothing wrong with it."

"Is that so?" One hadn't exactly looked impressed.

"It works. You'd be surprised at the results Boldigh had with its use."

"And what happened to your little spiel about _honor? _That's right. I'm aware of the conversation you had with Five not long before she met her end. Not exactly an honorable thing to do, that. Wouldn't you agree?"

"This is more than honorable. Think about it. Say you were the one to take out their leader. You, the leader if this flight, shooting down the leader of their flight. It's glorious combat the way it should be." It was a decidedly beautiful ruse. There was no honor in what he was suggesting at all and he knew it.

Seven honestly could not allow himself to give true thought to honor any longer. He always had been loyal to the thought of honor in the skies, but suddenly, he had discovered that all of that was of ill-use in the face of their foes. Initially he was troubled by his findings, but that had eventually gone away. Combat changed the way a man could think, and he was well-aware of that. He did not want to change the way he conducted himself, but if he wanted to succeed, he knew it would be necessary.

"What is it that drives you to be so abhorrent?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

At this point, One had become very quiet. He'd turned his focus back to the aircraft among him, using their presence to clear his mind and consider things.

"Do you know if the Orange Star prisoners of war are still alive?" he'd eventually queried.

Seven was not certain why One asked, but he'd gone along with it. "As far as I know, they're still rotting in the stockade. Commander Lash wanted to use them for her little experiments, but Hawke would have nothing of it."

"I may have some use for them. Be a dear and let those slimy guards know that I'll be over there later on this evening."

"Does this have anything to do with your plans for us?"

"I suppose you'll find out when I want you to. I'm only considering options right now."

Seven had stood there silently for a few seconds. "You do realize that the time we have left is not infinite. Our very lives are hinging on your efforts."

One hadn't answered.

The conversation had ended some moments later, with little flair in its conclusion. Seven had returned to his quarters, satisfied with the discussion. One's frustration had clearly hit its peak, and that had been Seven's goal. He had set his flight leader onto the correct path – The one that the Black Judgment Squadron needed to be on. With a little more goading, perhaps One would turn into a capable commander, but he had yet to see the real results of this game.

Later that night, he had been at his desk, playing some mind-numbing game on his laptop when he'd passingly glanced out his window, and he spotted an interesting sight: Judgment One handing what appeared to be an envelope to a Black Hole transportation trooper. As Seven had his window open slightly, he'd been able to make out their exchange.

"Make absolutely certain that reaches its destination," One had told the trooper. "I don't care if you have to sacrifice yourself to get it where it needs to go. It must reach Orange Star's hands somehow."

And only now, days later, did Seven begin to realize exactly what he had brought upon the Judgment Squadron.

--- --- ---

"Get _handed _to us," Tux scoffed, shaking his head.

"Well, I don't know what the hell else to do. We don't know where the bastards are located. Hell, they may be getting ping-ponged around by Black Hole to keep us from catching onto them for all we know." Glenn felt his frustration with the situation growing.

"Get real, Glenn. Like somebody's just gonna waltz in here and shove a big, fat opportunity to kick some Judgment ass straight into our sweaty little palms. We'd have more luck trying to win the lottery."

Tux sounded pretty certain of himself, and Glenn wasn't about to disagree.

"Have some hope," Rainey told the group's second-in-command. "He may be right."

"Well," Tuxedo Ral blathered, leaning back in his chair and propping it onto two legs precariously, "if that happens, may the good Lord just go ahead and strike me down right now—"

The break room's door swung back open, and there entered an Orange Star officer, holding an envelope in his hand. "Captain Gordon!"

Tux's face fell _immediately. _Glenn glanced between he and Rainey, then turned to the officer. "Yes?"

The officer could find no words to speak. He only held the envelope up to Glenn, who retrieved it, and then he made his escape.

Again Glenn glanced between his friends and started to pry the thing open, but when he did, he noticed Nell standing at the doorway, watching him silently. Tux and Rainey spotted her as well, but said nothing. The entire base suddenly seemed much more quiet than it had all week.

Glenn stared back at her wordlessly as a very bad feeling began to swim through his nerves.

Then he continued opening the envelope before unveiling its contents -- One single sheet of paper, a document that told Glenn Gordon in neat, printed handwriting:

"_To Whom It May Concern,_

_My given name is unimportant, as is yours to me. We have met before, and that is all that needs to be said as far as introductions go. On behalf of the Black Hole cause, I welcome you to your quick and inescapable defeat._

_You have brought me a great deal of frustration and malice, and mere words cannot begin to help in describing my contempt for your very existence at this point, but my hatred for you is not so great that it renders me blind to the predicament we have brought upon ourselves in our fighting. As a man who ultimately seeks to bring peace to this world, it has come to my realization that the most efficient way of ending this struggle is for us to settle our differences the way I believe we should. Whether or not you agree with these methods is not my concern. I will dictate these terms._

_On the morning of January 16th, 0600 hours, you will meet me in the skies above what Orange Star has labeled sector five-oh-seven. You, the flight leader, will come alone, as shall I. Should you fail to meet this requirement, whether by bringing with you your minions or by failing to arrive at all like a coward, I will summarily send an order to my associates that will result in the agonizing deaths of seventeen prisoners of war that we currently hold in our possession. I guarantee that their ends will not come swiftly, but should you disappoint me, I will make certain that yours will._

_It is unfortunate that they could tell me little of you other than your official squadron name. I'd held some hope that I would learn something of my tenacious enemy before destroying him, but I suppose it is our fate to know little of one another. I will shed no tears when I bring you down. Obey these terms, or watch your brethren be butchered. The choice is yours, and remember that I would not appreciate being stood up, and that the consequences of any rash actions in response to these demands will do nothing but bring about the unending misery of you and those around you._

_I am very much looking forward to our meeting. It should prove to be a good discussion. Until then, stay safe and ripe for the picking._

_Your friend in the clouds,_

_J.O."_

-----------------

Author Notes:

An even shorter installation this time around. Talky-talky situations can be like that, but I'll take as long as I need to finish this thing, as that's what any decent author should do when he's got people interested in his work. Stick around for more, and reviews are always welcome. Many thanks to all the people who have taken the time to review this story so far – Your feedback does not go unheard or unappreciated, whether it be positive or constructive criticism.


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